


Mage's Servant

by icicleteeth



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: A lot of sad elves, Flexible following of canon main quest, Found Family, Gen, Heavily implied NereVoryn, I said it before but canon is the road most travelled and I'm going to be detouring into the woods, LGBTQ+ characters, Lots of wizards and magic headcanoning, Mages Guild, This is just Sad Elf the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicleteeth/pseuds/icicleteeth
Summary: Servyn Fetcher is a servant of many kinds: a servant to a Telvanni Master living in the Imperial City, a servant to the mercy of the Empire when said Telvanni Master frames him for murder, and a servant to...a god? Who tells him in a dream that he's "chosen" for something, and on a prison ship bound for Morrowind. Try as he may to escape yet another role as a servant, he soon finds he isn't the only one running away from the same fate in this new land, and that he may be the only one able to put a stop to it--not just for him, but for all of Vvardenfell.All artwork is my own, and more stuff like concept art can be found on my Tumblr/Twitter @icicleteeth!
Comments: 66
Kudos: 77





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First time fic writer, hope y'all enjoy, and critique is very much welcome! I should note for these chapters (especially the beginning ones) that some liberties are taken regarding the locations' size (small towns in Morrowind will be written as much bigger than they actually are in the game, so that they read like actual small towns) Locations in the Imperial City and Arcane University are described much differently than their in-game areas, though this was out of necessity, as I have not played much Oblivion and am not familiar with these locations by heart (Yes I own two copies of the game, yes I destroyed both of them into unplayability due to modding incompetency) Speaking of modding, the fic will reference small things from mods like Tamriel Rebuilt, it's not going to have a huge presence, I just enjoy the mods and like to include them into my own personal canon! Julan Kaushibael is also a mod (credit to Kateri!) and will be a more prominent addition later on!

Imperial City, 3E 427

Through the prosperous capital of the Imperial City rings the celestial tune of the chapel bells of the Temple District, informing the city’s many districts of the start of a new day. It’s quite early—the sky is still a scarce dark blue, as the sun has yet to fully rise from its own slumber. Nevertheless, there were folk who rose before the sun, and these folk begrudgingly pour out into the streets of the Market, Temple, and Waterfront in sparse crowds. The residential districts of the Talos Plaza and Elven Gardens remain mostly quiet, as such middle and upper class residents have no reason to wake up so early—most of them don't, anyway.

The second story window of a grand Elven Gardens home bursts open—not from being opened naturally, but through magic. A tall Dunmer draped in fine Hammerfell silks lowers his palm from which traces of light dissolve into the air. Ascending from the large double bed and into a pair of slippers, he passes by the mirror to check himself. He was old, though in number only, as a Dunmer such as he lives much longer and ages differently than the men folk. His face looks quite young, relative to the few hundreds of years that actually made up his age, and could easily pass as a middle aged mer despite the semi-permanent curmudgeonly scowl he often wears along with his bald head. Not that he was bald from hair loss, of course—it just often got in the way of his work, which took precedence over vanity. He is the great master Arvosi Veran of House Telvanni.

Cyrodiil is nice. The weather was never too harsh nor too boring, and the morning birds sung a good morning tune instead of shrieked bloody death, like they did on the mainland. He once lived a cushy life in Morrowind, until…unfortunate circumstances. None of which he was involved with, of course. An untimely death befell a fellow master from a neighboring tower due to a long fall from the very top of his roof. Word was the late master was hard at work developing elixirs with gravity reduction (slow-falling, as its more widely known as) properties, but the potions found on his body had strong weight-burdening properties in them; a mistake that seemed odd for a Telvanni master to make. Needless to say it didn’t take long for the city’s alchemically minded folks to notice Arvosi’s small garden of gold kanet and suspect foul play. Murder isn’t very taboo (nor uncommon) in House Telvanni, but alas the uncultured common rabble wasn’t acclimated to such customs, forcing Arvosi to leave his cozy life in Morrowind to find an even cozier life in the Imperial City.

And cozy it was! Instead of sticky foamy mushroom floors that were prone to growing foul smelling pustules if left unattended (and how tedious it was, to attend to them!) he strides down finely sanded and varnished wooden flooring in well insulated Imperial walls that made up all the coziness of a cottage with all the size of a lavish upper class city home. Birds serenade from outside, warm sunlight filters through the open window shutters, and the air smells of fresh morning glories. The only thing missing to make this morning as comfy as it should be is a hot cup of tea, which should be ready right about—oh.

The state of the kitchen is in the exact same mess he’d left it in last night: dirty dishes and bowls from last night’s alchemy experiments litter the stone sink, drawers and cupboards left empty and open, a red puddle of liquid from an accidentally spilled potion bottle still pooled on the floor. This left one question: _where is that stupid, lazy apprentice?_

Arvosi disappears down the stone basement connecting to the kitchen, nearly stomping down each step. Once down, he casts a Light spell to illuminate the dreary underbelly of his home, where a curled up ball lightly snoring underneath thin blanket lies over an even thinner bedroll on the floor.

“ _SERVYN._ ”

At the sound of Arvosi’s deep ashy voice, the ball jolts into a scramble of limbs, until a wide-eyed young Dunmer peeks through the mess of blanket and frizzled long white hair spilling over his fear-stricken face. He knew why Arvosi was here, and from the look his master gave him—arms crossed, upturned expecting gaze, and impatient tapping of one foot—Arvosi knew his apprentice knew too.

And indeed, the apprentice _did_ know. He hadn’t truly meant to sleep in (or at all, for that matter), but he’d been up very late doing some of the washing—truth be told, the kitchen was in an even worse state before he cleaned most of it up. He’d only meant to lay down for 5 minutes, as his eyes felt heavy and interfered with his cleaning. He didn’t mean to fall asleep for the whole night, but the look on Arvosi’s face told him he wasn’t in the mood to hear excuses—not that he ever was. Such was the nature of their master-“apprentice” relationship.

The “apprentice” known as Servyn wasn’t truly an apprentice, nor was “Servyn” his true name. Arvosi only thought it up on necessity—in the mainland, where the cunning Master scooped up a free slave in the form of a short malnourished vagrant from the streets of Narsis, without fuss nor trouble. It didn’t matter that the servant had no identifiable personhood, for the practice of slavery still flourishes in some parts of Morrowind, so it was perfectly fine to simply call him "Servant". However, once reaching Cyrodiil, a _less open minded province_ where slavery is outlawed, Arvosi’s hand was forced into the creation of a new identity for his servant: Servyn (pronounced “Ser-vin”) the mage’s apprentice. Arvosi amused himself quite a bit at how much the name sounded like “servant” while cleverly appearing like an ordinary Dunmeri name. Servyn wasn’t very keen on that quirk to his name, but decided he was happy enough to have a name at all.

“Get up, Fetcher. Bittergreen tea doesn’t make itself.”

Arvosi is not addressing Servyn in a formal manner the same way one would address another’s surname. “Fetcher” (being a common word for a servant in Morrowind) was the second most frequent way Arvosi addressed him. The term’s meaning isn’t well known in Cyrodiil, so Arvosi’s none-the-wiser upper class friends and clients believed this to be the apprentice’s surname. In keeping up with formalities, they too call Servyn “Fetcher” more often than not—another small amusement Arvosi benefits from.

Regardless, Servyn obeys with a hushed “Yes, muthsera” and rises from the bedroll. Yawning and stretching his body to his full height (which was just under five feet tall), he shambles up the cold stone stairway to the kitchen. Servyn performs the morning routine of preparing his master’s tea and biscuits with the precision of an automaton—pour water in the kettle and light it with a mild fire spell, wash dirty plates Arvosi used during late night alchemical business and left for him to clean, water should be finished boiling by then. As the tea steeps, retrieve biscuits from the topmost cupboard shelf (a task made possible for a mer of his height thanks to a simple telekinesis spell) and lay them in a neat fashion on a now clean saucer. Tea and biscuits in hand, Servyn bounds past the foyer up the steps to Arvosi’s quarters without checking whether he retreated to the alchemy lab or study—he knows his master’s morning routine just as well as his master follows it.

As expected, Arvosi stands at the large standing mirror adjusting a golden sapphire necklace around his neck—one of many trinkets adorning his extravagant ultramarine robe. Servyn joins his side, offering the bittergreen tea and biscuits. Arvosi takes them without a thank you.

“You look hideous. Go clean yourself up and dress presentably. We’re having guests this morning.”

In the mirror, Servyn’s mussed facial hair and long locks—a tangled mess that stuck out at odd ends and catches in frayed threads of his dirt-stained burlap tunic drastically contrasted with Arvosi’s freshly gelled bald head and pristine Telvanni garments which don’t have a single wrinkle to them. Servyn mumbles a second “Yes, muthsera” and takes his leave.

The guests arrive at 8 a.m. on the dot: an elderly Breton mage and his companion, a young Altmer healer, both hailing from the Arcane University. Servyn opens the front door for them and bows in greeting. The Imperial nods in acknowledgement.

“Ah, you must be Arvosi’s apprentice. Good morning.”

Servyn indeed _looks_ the part of an apprentice very well. He now wears a turquoise silk robe over an ochre doublet bearing the iconic spiral patterns of House Telvanni—the same outfit he always wears around company to give the impression he’s _definitely_ an apprentice. His hair was combed now, though still frumpy in a few places. The form-fitting doublet better accentuates his pudgy midsection—a state Arvosi wouldn’t normally let a slave grow comfortable enough to have, though the image of a short, soft-bellied bumbling idiot played nicely into the apprentice façade, so he let it slide. It certainly fooled the Imperial and Altmer.

“Master Arvosi is in the study. Please follow me, sera.”

The three sit on sofas across from eachother at a wooden coffee table, the two University associates on one side and Arvosi on another. Servyn stands by Arvosi’s side with another tray of tea and biscuits—he’s not allowed to sit on the furniture, after all.

“So…have you given our offer much thought?” the Imperial asks.

Arvosi lifts his hand. Instinctually, Servyn hands him a teacup, from which Arvosi takes a long sip, eyes closed and chin pointed high in a snobbish manner. He opens one eye lazily.

“I have.”

The Imperial perks up. “And?”

“I think your establishment must be a very sorry place to seek outside talent in a humble old wizard such as myself.”

The Imperial frowns, unsure of how to respond.

“With all due respect,” the Altmer chimes in, “you underestimate yourself in identifying as a mere humble citizen. We’ve heard in good faith that you were a very powerful and well respected wizard in Morrowind—a Master of the Great House Telvanni, no less. I’ve no doubt you possess valuable arcane knowledge unknown and foreign to us here in Cyrodiil.”

Arvosi hums in amusement. “Foreign arcane knowledge, you say? Hardly likely, with the vast spreading of wisdom through language and mass-produced spell tomes. Even the most trivial Cure Rancid Armpits spell conceived of by a drunken Nord in some backwater tavern in Skyrim has already found its place in libraries all across Tamriel. Alchemy, on the other hand…” Arvosi takes another sip of his tea. “Well, not even the most affluent Imperial mages with access to the Empire’s best trade routes and import goods would know or have access to the Eyestars of Firewatch, which only grow in certain waters of the Telvanni Peninsula and are the most invaluable ingredients used for creating night eye and water breathing elixirs. We had quite a lucrative business relationship with a spelunking division in the Thieves’ Guild—see now, I’ve given you “valuable foreign knowledge” here, but everyone knows only fresh Star’s Eyes work, and only the best alchemists of Morrowind possess the skill and experience to harvest them. Ah, but pardon me! Here I am reminiscing over the advances my Great House succeeds in while your pitiful Empire falls behind—but most egregiously, my guests sit idly by without so much as a cup of tea for themselves.” Arvosi clears his throat.

Servyn rushes over to the Imperial and Altmer, offering them both a full cup. They accept reluctantly, and Servyn returns back to his master’s side.

“Now then…what were you saying, sera?”

The two mages eye eachother nervously. The Imperial decides to speak up.

“Mister Arvosi, we believe your alchemical wisdom would prove beneficial to the Arcane University. Your unique talents in identifying unique solutions specifically in native fauna and flora of a given province could inspire creativity in our students to seek unique formulas in ingredients found only in Cyrodiil, and perhaps encourage them to consider what their…erm, possible future clientele could be. Henceforth, we’d like to once again extend an invitation to hold a one session demonstration of your skills as a guest lecturer at the University.”

Arvosi chuckles, very much loving the near groveling the University representatives display before him. “Fine then, I suppose it can’t be helped. Today’s budding youth ought to have _somebody_ teach them something useful—something that will make their no doubt prestigious attendance worth the no doubt steep cost, wouldn’t you say?”

The Imperial and Altmer grimace to the other for guidance on how to respond. Arvosi puts them both out of their misery and rises from the couch, leading the conversation.

“Come, friends! We shall discuss the details further in my lab. Ought to have a look at a truly brilliant mage’s equipment and work station—perhaps you will learn something!”

The guests nod as if knowing they have little choice but to follow. As the group leaves the study, Arvosi notices his stupid apprentice dutifully rejoin his side.

“You—“ Arvosi begins, though holds back what would’ve been a harsh reminder that he wasn’t ordered to follow them to slip into the kinder and more patient persona he was forced to upkeep around the public. He clears his throat.

“Your assistance isn’t needed in the lab, Fetcher. Why don’t you bring the tea set back to the kitchen and do some washing up?”

Servyn obeys.


	2. Ruby

Servyn carefully loads the last of Arvosi’s equipment, an ornately jeweled alembic, into the back of the small cart they—or more accurately, _he_ will transport to the Arcane University for Arvosi’s scheduled guest lecture on native Cyrodiilic specimens and their alchemical properties. Separate well-sealed urns house several hand-harvested mushrooms, creature guts, and flora they (“they” of course still meaning just Servyn) collected that morning—fresh from the source, of course. Only amateurs buy their ingredients from shops, as Arvosi always said.

Arvosi casually strolls out into the lawn dressed in fine silks and jewelry just as Servyn manages to lift the tongues of the wagon, gasping at the effort it takes to support such weight. His master carries one last (heavy) box with him, which is added onto the already burdensome load the apprentice barely has under control.

“M-more shipments, muthsera?”

“Yes,” Arvosi drawls with disdain. “Rare imports from Morrowind. The Imperials were very interested in showcasing ingredients from the homeland. Come Fetcher,” he crows in the same manner one would address a dog—a dirty mutt, specifically. If it weren’t for a powerful Feather spell cast on the cart, Servyn never would’ve caught up to his master as he leads them both through the bustling Green Emperor Way district to the Arboretum.

The Arcane University stands tall and oppressive—a good look befitting a supposed institution of magical studies. Whether or not the _people_ in said institution lived up to the structure’s grand presentation was yet to be proven. Arvosi’s expectations weren’t very high—at least, until he enters the school’s grounds to find several crowds of students and scholars deeply engrossed in their research, while in other places outdoor lectures that, with a cursory listen to what was being said, was admittedly adequate. Perhaps the Imperials weren't as hopeless as he thought.

He looks behind him to make sure his apprentice was still following him with the supplies, only to find the infantile idiot gawking at the decorative purple flames adorning either side of the University’s entrance. He swore under his breath that regardless of how incompetent the Imperials were, any of them would make a better slave than this _s’wit_ …but of course, he couldn’t say that out loud. They were in public.

“Servyn,” he calls with a cold and calculated cheerfulness, “we’ve no time to distract ourselves with Imperial baubles. We’ve got a lecture to hold, don’t you remember?”

Servyn pales, rushing over to his master with the cart—Arvosi was most frightening when acting calm.

The large entrance gates open on their own into the outside courtyard of the University, which teems with even more students dressed in identical light blue robes shuffling down the circular pathway that leads through the many class halls, each dedicated to their own branch of magic. Lush greenery and gardens of exotic flowers and mushrooms decorate the outdoor sitting area below the main road. This, Arvosi deduces, is where they’ll find the Lustratorium—the University’s specialized department for alchemical arts, which should be—

“Huh? Me? No sera, I’m just an apprentice…”

For the second time, Arvosi turns his back to once again find his disappointment of a servant getting distracted by trifling matters again—this time by a group of curious University students marveling at the feat of a such a short elf carrying such a large cart of supplies.

“It’s no trouble to carry if you cast a Feather spell on it…”

A Breton student marvels at the simplicity of the solution, while his Bosmer and Altmer friends ask more questions.

“Couldn’t a Fortify Strength spell work just as easily without the risk of altering the cart somehow?” asks the Bosmer. “There’s no telling how alchemy reagents will react to magic being cast on them.”

Servyn can’t help but beam just a bit. He doesn’t get the chance to talk to people very often.

“You _could_ , but you would risk bringing harm to yourself! A Feather spell wears off gradually, while Fortify is instantaneous. If you feel the spell wearing off, you have time to save yourself and recast Feather, whereas the one time I used Fortify Strength to carry a dead dreugh back to my master, the spell wore off so suddenly, and—“

“That’s preposterous.”

In an instant, the small of amount of joy Servyn had melted into dread. He turns to face his master, whose calm expression told him everything Arvosi wanted to say, but couldn’t: _You’ve disappointed me again, Fetcher._

“A mage’s top priority is his work, not his life. What meaning would his life have without the quality of his performance to prove its worth? Students and _apprentices_ would do well to ask themselves this. Now then, Servyn…” Arvosi turns away, not bothering to waste eye contact on the useless fool. “We’ve got to find the Lustratorium, remember? Come now, we’ve no time to waste.”

Servyn nods, recasting a Feather spell on the cart and taking hold of the tongues once again. “Where are we going, muthsera?”

Arvosi ignores Servyn, wishing very much that he’d hired a mover instead of bringing him along.

“Sir,” the Altmer student chimes in. “We could show you to the Lustratorium.”

The students guide them towards a large building with its own greenhouse built into the side of it—the building Arvosi already surmised was the Lustratorium _without_ the help of school students showing him the way, but so be it if the youth wishes to feel important by assisting the elderly.

“We were actually on our way to attend your lecture,” the Breton says whilst he and his friends hold the large metal front door open for Arvosi to step inside. Servyn follows with the cart, though stops short at the entrance. The grand high-ceiling chamber that is the Lustratorium is much bigger than he anticipated—what must be over fifty separate alchemy stations (three quarters of which are already occupied by students) lined up into neat rows facing one even larger and more grandiose laboratory (where the professor is meant to demonstrate?), surrounded by extensive collections of terrariums ranging from small to large, fauna to flora. Arvosi himself was less than impressed by the University’s accommodations—he only trusted his own equipment and ingredients to be of pristine quality, hence bringing his own. If only he were permitted to clear out the lecture desk and set up his own things…if only the classroom staff were around. As far as the eye could see, only students occupied the halls at the moment. Students and—

“Aha! Sir!”

A warrior? Guard? More specifically, a large Orc clad in steel armor clambers up to Arvosi and Servyn. Despite wielding a massive battle axe and looking very un-magely compared to everything else in the classroom, he seems friendly and not at all lost or confused about where he is. Servyn wanted to greet the Orc and ask if his weapon was a real axe, while Arvosi, for the first time, shows a hint of surprise over something in the University.

“You’re…the curator of this establishment?”

The Orc reels back in laughter, both of amusement and embarrassment.

“No sir, I just work here, sir! But hey! You’re the…that Tell-van-ey master Vulna’s been lookin’ for, yeah?”

Arvosi nods, recognizing the name from the representatives’ discussion from the previous week, and the Orc beams like a schoolboy in a sweets shop. “Yessir, I was told to expect you, sir! You see, sir—that is to say, sir…ahem! Miss Vulna, sir—uh, ma’am! That wizard’s here!”

At the Orc’s call, an elderly Imperial woman emerges from a back room hallway. She approaches Arvosi with a regal strut of bejeweled fine boots and elegant robes that wouldn’t look out of place in a city castle.

“Ahem, very nice, Gord. You may return to the practice rooms, at once…”

‘Of course, si—ma’am! Ma’am, I’ll be leaving now!” The Orc bows and takes a very swift and clanky leave. The woman called Vulna bows as well—to Arvosi. “Very sorry about that, Mister Veran. The conjuration instructor’s hireling is only meant for clearing out unruly summoned daedra, but we were rather short on staff to keep an eye out for your arrival and had to make do with _someone_.” Vulna sounded glad to be rid of the Orc, but Arvosi quite liked him. He was a simple oaf, clearly possessing only a single brain cell, which he dedicates to following orders—the way a servant _should_ be.

“No apologies necessary, Miss Vulna. I take it you’re the true captain of this ship, so to speak?”

Vulna blushes a bit at the compliment. “That is correct. I oversea all affairs regarding the University’s alchemy department here in the Lustratorium, even do a bit of teaching every now and then…but today is your day to shine, not mine! To think, a true Master of House Telvanni…here, in Cyrodiil!”

“Well,” Arvosi hums, intrigued with the woman’s interest, “not many in Cyrodiil know of my Great House at all. Such a shame, really.”

“Agreed! We Imperials could learn a lot from the Telvanni! Growing our own homes from nothing, specializing in all schools of magic rather than devoting oneself to only one branch, dedicating our lives to solitary study without the day to day distraction of civilization…”

Arvosi nods to each and every one of Vulna’s points, basking in the praise. Servyn’s attention wanders off from his master to the other students. Many of them flip through books absentmindedly on their desks, adjust their setups a bit and fold their hands together patiently only to readjust again, or polish their alembics for the third time in the last ten minutes. Shouldn’t the lecture start, if the students have long since finished preparing their stations?

“Erm, muthsera…?”

The prideful smile Arvosi wore falters a bit.

“What is it, Servyn.”

“Ought the lecture start soon?”

Oh, how Arvosi wished he could reprimand the stupid Fetcher right here! The nerve he has, to tell his master what _he_ should be doing, as if he knew better than the great Master Arvosi! Thankfully, for everyone’s sake, Vulna has the decency to look embarrassed over the delay caused by her idle chattering.

“Yes, that’s right. We’re all eager to see a true Master in action, after all! I leave the rest to you, Mister Veran. But my, I see you’ve brought your own equipment, too! Please, by all means, rearrange our lecturer’s desk to your heart’s content; I’ll remain in the back of the class, should you need my assistance.”

Once the Imperial leaves, Servyn begins unloading the cart, starting with the calcinator. He turns around to place it onto the lecturer’s desk, but finds Arvosi towering over him. He grabs the calcinator from Servyn.

“I’ll handle everything from here. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

Servyn blinks. He didn’t expect Arvosi to relieve him of any duties, though he supposed the mer didn’t want anyone touching the equipment right now. He’ll unload the shipments, then.

“I said, _your assistance is no longer needed_ ,” Arvosi hisses in a venomous whisper as Servyn takes hold of a large box. Did he do something wrong?

“Master?”

Arvosi takes hold of Servyn by the shoulder and gently (though he wished he didn’t have to be gentle) takes him aside. The students watch him as if he’s in trouble. Was he in trouble?

“To put it in words even a simple-minded buffoon like you can understand: I forbid you from participating in the lecture. You’ve proven to be a disappointment time and time again today, and I will not have such idiocy getting in the way of my presentation. We’ll discuss your punishment once we’re home.”

Audibly reassuring Servyn that he could “very easily handle the lecture from here, there’s no need for your assistance, just stay back here, apprentice!” to quell any suspicion from the onlookers, Arvosi returns to the front lecture desk to begin his presentation. Servyn finds a vacant chair tucked away from the rest of the class and curls up on it, tucking his legs in and resting his chin over his knees. He listens to Arvosi’s introductory speech for a bit before losing interest in the recap of information he himself has been lectured about hundreds of times by now. Before his mind could wander into less pleasant subjects (such as stewing over the aforementioned punishment), he decides to focus his attention on the students.

Currently, they’ve been instructed to grind their reagents into fine bits with a mortar and pestle. Arvosi shows them an advanced grinding technique that reduces anything—even hardened gemstones into a fine dust one could easily blow away by mistake. Many of the students are curious of this technique, less so for the skill itself, but for the fact that Arvosi chose to grind up a _diamond_ of all things in his demonstration.

“But of course,” he so jubilantly replies, “just about everything in Tamriel has some inkling of magical properties to them, should you have the determination to find it. Some may think to preserve such valuable gemstones, thinking what madman would destroy such a pricey trinket, but I say: to Oblivion with vanity, to Aetherius with innovation! Fortunately for all of you, I’ve brought supplies just for this occasion.”

Arvosi takes hold of the very hefty shipment of rare imports from Morrowind. Opening the box reveals why it was so heavy—as it was brimming with gemstones, among other exotic goods.

“Everyone may take one gemstone. Let us attempt that grinding technique once more, hm?”

Servyn watches excited students crowd around the box and pick a gemstone. The diamonds and emeralds were the first to go, followed by the sapphires. Seems most of them were eager to pick the most expensive ones, he thought, though one very curious Imperial insisted on digging to the bottom of the shipment to pick out something different.

He pulls out a ruby. A ruby that immediately catches Servyn’s interest. Having watched every other student collect various gems (and having collected many gems himself) he knew each gem gleamed white under light. But this ruby, he could’ve sworn he saw it gleam black. Did anyone else notice? Did Arvosi notice? Admittedly, Arvosi never paid much attention to any peculiarities in his ingredients, as he usually worked in tandem with barking orders at his apprentice and expecting him to make sure everything was in working order, so as not to get in the way of “the real work”. But now, Servyn wasn’t by his side, and he couldn’t help but feel Arvosi would not take kindly to him rejoining said side to tell him about the strange gleam. Maybe it really was nothing, and Servyn was right to not inform his master of what very well could’ve just been his imagination…but then, what if it wasn’t?

Once the students return to their seats, Servyn shifts his focus to the Imperial and the strange ruby. Indeed, the moment he drops the ruby into his mortar, it gleamed black once again. None of his peers take notice, as they themselves are occupied with their own grinding. The Imperial takes his pestle, and brings it into the bowl.

Everything happens in the blink of an eye. The moment pestle meets ruby, the gem bursts into a blinding light, from which a clannfear—a very quick and vicious daedra emerges from the flash and pounces directly on the Imperial. By this point, alchemical equipment is knocked over and shattered on the floor, students both in the direct vicinity of and far away from the site of the summoning scream and panic over what’s going on, where a daedra came from, if this was some prank being pulled on them by a conjuration student, but most of all—where are the University guards!?

Servyn had already gotten up and readied destruction magic before the pestle struck the ruby, so was first on the scene. Without thinking, he strikes the clannfear with an icicle lance, knocking it far back enough from the Imperial’s body to tackle it with more deadly close range magic.

The second to arrive to the scene is Arvosi, who was in a state of panic for completely different reasons besides the fact that the Imperial student was nothing more than a mangled corpse by the time he got there. Against his better judgment, he frantically casts powerful healing spells he knows won’t work, but he had to look like he was doing something. He refused to let the public think he was involved in _another_ murder incident, let alone be accused of causing one again. Leaving Morrowind to move to Cyrodiil was tedious enough on its own! He swears under his breath about how he “can’t deal with such rumors again” and something about how “there must be a way to get out of this”.

“Master!”

Arvosi swivels around to find Servyn unsheathing a shock spell and hobbling towards him. His now tattered robes are decorated with fresh claw marks. “The clannfear’s dead, muthsera—“ he stops and gasps at the corpse of the Breton student, gagging at the sight and smell of fresh blood. In stark contrast to Servyn’s distress, Arvosi’s face lights up with hope at the sight of the apprentice. _This was his ticket out of this mess._

Like a seasoned actor, Arvosi transforms his demeanor into one of fury.

“You IDIOT! Stupid _Fetcher_!” He’s fully facing Servyn, who recoils at the sudden unexpected outburst. He darts his gaze from Arvosi to the corpse, unsure of which to break down in a panic attack over. Soon he wouldn’t have to choose, for the act wasn’t over yet.

“I _told_ you to check each and every gemstone for curses, and now look! An innocent man lies dead because of your negligence.”

Cursed gemstone? Servyn thought back to all the ingredients he’d collected for the lecture—none of which were gemstones. The only shipment he didn’t pack himself was the box of Morrowind imports Arvosi added on…

University guards pour into the classroom, swords drawn, demanding where “the beast” was. Something pushes through them—the Orc warrior from before, battle axe readied, nearly roaring about how he “heard there were foul critters running around, sir! I’ll hack ‘em up real good, sir!” Disregarding the fact that they were all probably referring to the clannfear, Arvosi took this opportunity to finally absolve himself of this whole ordeal.

“Guards, at last!” Arvosi hobbles over to them, feigning fright. “The beast is dead, I took care of it swiftly. My deepest apologies and condolences for the deceased student over this fatal blunder, I didn’t think—that is to say, _I_ had thoroughly explained to my _apprentice_ to check for these things—it’s his job to ensure the quality of my ingredients, sir, for I only collect them—“

The guards all look to Servyn, who himself had taken to trying his own healing spells in vain, hoping there was still a bit of life left in the student.

“The poor fool, trying to hide his guilt by mending the wounds of a dead man. Here’s hoping he doesn’t mix up Greater Heal with Greater Fireball again…”

Reaction is swift and merciless. Before Servyn knew it, the Orc had him pinned to the ground, while a guard cuffs his arms. On instinct, he tries to cast some kind of Shield spell, but a separate guard had managed to cast a Silence spell on him before he had the chance to even comprehend what was going on.

“No use resisting, apprentice. You’re coming with us.”

Magicka-draining enchanted bracers were shackled to him the moment he was arrested and detained. It was an all-too familiar sensation—Arvosi forced similar restraints on him shortly after they met in Narsis, and it wasn’t until they reached Cyrodiil and decided on Servyn’s apprentice alias that the bracers finally came off. Having them back on again, especially now that he’s grown accustomed to actually using his magical capabilities made his mind go numb. Magic was the one thing he had that differentiated him from the common street rat. It marked a significant turning point in his life from a vagrant to…well, someone who at least had a roof over his head.

He didn’t fight back or struggle at all when prison guards stripped him of everything he had on his person to force him into crusty old burlap rags and toss him against the stone walls of a small damp prison cell. The last he’d heard from the guards was a harsh slam of a metal gate and the click of a lock. Then, silence.

Sometimes a stray drop of water dripped on the ground, echoing off the cramped walls of the cell. Other times, a rat squeaked from another side of the prison, the pitter patter of its paws scrambling in desperate search of leftover rations and crumbs. At one point, Servyn could make out the distinct crack of leather whip on skin—a sound he was personally familiar with back in Morrowind, before he was known as Servyn. He doesn’t have the strength to lift his arms and cover his ears. He twitches helplessly at every whipping sound in the distance as if he himself were the one being lashed—perhaps not physically, but in his heart, to his psyche, he felt beaten. Even after the noise stopped, the pain continued to fester into a paralyzing numbness. Which was…good, right? Surely feeling nothing was better than feeling awful.

He wanted to cry. Or scream. But most of all, he wanted to ask why he was in here, and if his master was coming back for him. Arvosi seemed uncharacteristically panicked back at the University, shouting at him for causing the cursed gem incident. But surely he knew it was an accident—that Servyn couldn’t have done anything about it, and once he’s calmed down, he would tell the guards it was all a mistake, and then he could go home!

Days pass. The most interaction with the outside world Servyn had was the one time a day the prison warden slid gruel through a small opening in the metal gate door. Sometimes he’d manage to keep down a few bites. Most of the time it sat untouched until a rat came and gobbled it all up. Overtime the same rat became something of a cellmate for Servyn, knowing it was guaranteed a free meal as long as it tolerated the presence of the stinking vaguely Dunmer-shaped ball that lay in the corner of the prison cell most of the day.

Except one day, the rat stopped in the middle of slurping its fill to scurry into the corner—specifically into the corner Servyn laid facing—and hide behind him. For the first time in a long while, Servyn felt something, and that something was confusion. The only people you’d ever find in the prisons were other prisoners and the wardens, and surely all the rats here were familiar with their company by now. Curiosity granted him enough strength to sit up turn around to face the prison gates, where a group of unfamiliar and out of place soldiers stood whispering amongst themselves over some documents. Their armor is much shinier and very unlike the warden’s attire, as if they were of a much higher authority than a normal guard.

“What did you say to Stinkhorn Bog-Beacon?”

Of course he gave the rat a name—everything deserves a name, after all. This name takes after one of the few things that always stuck in mind—an alchemy recipe Arvosi often ordered him to make. The figures turned their focus to the disheveled filthy Dunmer within the cage. They weren’t at all amused nor interested in answering his question. One muttered something about “This one being the correct prisoner”, which prompted the tallest and most heavily-clad of the bunch to unlock the prison cell.

“Get up, scum. You’re being relocated.”


	3. Azura

As it turns out, Servyn is being relocated to the back of a carriage. This didn’t seem like such a bad alternative to the Imperial City Prison until he’s relocated a second time to a boat. Specifically, the musky, damp lower deck of a boat, cramped together with a dozen or so other prisoners who looked just as ragged and miserable as he did.

All but one prisoner even gave Servyn so much as a glance when he was tossed into the lower deck like a wild animal. After regaining his senses from the abrupt meeting his face had with the floor, he notices who was watching him—a tall well-built Dunmer with a large scar across his right eye (which was white, as opposed to the mer’s other red eye). Despite his appearance, the one-eyed Dunmer wore a friendly expression and looked as if he wanted to greet Servyn, but knew not to impose conversation on a newly arrived, probably anxious prisoner.

Good. Servyn didn’t want to talk to anyone. He picks a vacant spot against a crate to sit by and collapses to the floor, pulling his legs close to his body. He keeps his focus trained on the ground. That was safe. One fact amongst many he learned from years of street life: eye contact was just an invitation for a fight, whether you’re asking for one or not.

An unknown amount of time passes in uneventful silence interrupted by occasional growls and hisses in broken Tamrielic from other boat mates—most of which were Khajiits and Argonians. At some point the boat must’ve set sail, as it began to lean back and forth in varying intervals of gentle rocking and aggressive tossing and turning—there was no in-between, nor a single moment of respite from the torrential onslaught. Servyn could hear other prisoners crying for their delirious heads or vomiting from sea-sickness nearby. He too felt a sickening nausea from the boat’s unrelenting sporadic movement, but for better or worse he had nothing in his stomach to throw up.

Minutes turn into hours which would turn into days, had Servyn been able to fall asleep. Passing out for a few hours here and there with no way of knowing what time it was at any given moment meant he had no idea how many days, if any, have passed since being thrown onto the ship. It wasn’t until what he thought might've been the second day of the journey that the heaviness in his eyes finally resulted in something close to truly sleeping—he wasn’t sure if it truly counted, because just as quickly as his body drifted into unconsciousness, it jolted right back into it. Or did it?

Truly, he was “awake” in that he was conscious. But he was no longer sitting against the old crate in the miserable swaying cargo hold of the ship. He was…floating? In what felt like an endless expansive sea of stars and color. A dream, he concluded, though this was certainly one of his more abstract and otherworldly ones. It felt impossible to comprehend the flow of time, how much of it passed with every moment, if every minute was actually a minute or if years went by in the tick of a single second. It _looked_ somewhat like the inside of a gemstone, except while a gemstone may only have several different facets, the world itself was made up of hundreds of billions of facets, each one being a new color not yet seen by mortal eyes. So much of this space could be described, yet no part of it could be comprehended.

 _It’s just a dream. I must be dreaming, and this strange void is the last thing you see before you die._ Servyn was fine with this conclusion. It was quite a pretty place. One could spend an entire lifetime gazing upon the endless expanse of shimmering color and light that glowed in some places and swirled into brand new hues in others. If this was the last place he ever saw, then perhaps dying wasn’t such a bad choice over living.

“They’ve taken you from the Imperial City…” rings a woman's voice.

Servyn nearly has a heart attack at the sudden break in silence—he tries to turn around (float around, to be more accurate), and see if he could make out where the voice came from, but no-one was there. He clearly was alone, yet at the same time…wasn’t. The voice didn’t come from any direction either—it echoed throughout the world, as if the world itself was the source. But strangest of all—it was a woman’s voice! Servyn didn’t know any women, and women typically didn’t want to know Servyn. Whether it was his imagination filling in the blanks or not, upon squinting, the swirling colors and fractals of the dream-space came together into an abstract depiction of…well, merely referring to the figure as “female shaped” didn’t quite describe the god-like beauty of its form.

“Hello? Are you a woman?

“To the east. To Morrowind.” The voice didn’t seem as interested in answering his question as much as it did creating more for him to also not have answered. They’re taking him back to Morrowind? Who? The Empire? Someone else?

“Wait a minute. How would you know that? You’re just a…figment of my dreams? A ghost? Either way, you couldn’t possibly know anything I don’t know, and I definitely don’t know where they’re taking me…”

“I exist in many places, in many minds both inside and outside of Mundus,” the voice answers.

“Like…a god?”

“Something of the sort.”

Now Servyn was really confused. “But… _who_ are you?” he asks again.

“The needle is fed, but the threads of fate have yet to be sewn—should you survive the creation of destiny’s tapestry and become my champion, then you will know. “

This didn’t answer anything. Servyn grows increasingly upset, and the intangible being seemed to pick up on this.

“Fear not,” the voice hushed in a soothing motherly tone that was so foreign to him. “I am all-seeing, and I am watchful. _You_ have been chosen.”

The world still turned, supposedly. But having such cryptic yet heavy words placed on him froze everything. He had everything to fear about this message—especially if some divine entity is going to watch him fail every step of the way!

“Chosen!?” Servyn shouts into the void. “Chosen for what? If it’s a worshipper you’re after, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I never followed any gods before. No god worth preaching about would’ve let me live in squalor my whole life…but all of them did! Even you, whoever you are…”

Silence. The mind-space stood perfectly still, not a single fractal distorting into another, nor a single color amidst the hundreds making up this strange realm stirred from their places or changed into new ones. Was time still moving? Was the voice still watching?

“Hello?” Servyn calls into the nothingness. Unsurprisingly, the nothingness responds with…nothing. “Hello!?” he cries again, this time more desperate. As anxiety began to set in, the world seemed to turn darker and more violent—colors disappeared, but the fractals distorted faster, as if losing control. The peaceful silence became a maddening one that in itself tore into his psyche more viciously than the loudest cacophonies in the world could. Even his own voice felt drowned out, having nothing to echo through. “Somebody, anybody, if you’re out there! What’s going on!?”

The world stops. Everything stops spinning. Colors stop changing, for everything is entirely black and white now. Before Servyn takes another breath to cry, something finally speaks.

“Are you okay?” rings a husky unfamiliar voice—a man’s.

The dream-space of his nightmare disappears in a sudden transition back to the dusty lower bowels of the prison ship. There were sounds again—faint signs of life humming and echoing through the wooden confines. Never before had the groans of miserable prisoners and unstable creaking of old floorboards felt so relieving to hear again.

The first thing Servyn notices is unlike the previous days consisting of his entire world tossing and turning from the sea waves crashing against the boat, everything now stood completely still, as if the ship wasn’t sailing anymore.

The second thing he notices is the one-eyed dunmer prisoner kneeling before his crumpled form on the ground, face wrought with genuine concern. Servyn didn’t trust that look. Nobody ever truly cared what happened to him, least of all strangers. Nevertheless, he pushes these thoughts back and sits up.

“I’m fine.”

The Dunmer gives a sympathetic smile. “Not even last night’s storm could wake you. Bad, dream I take it? But you’re okay, that’s good. Can you stand?”

Servyn nods. It takes quite a bit of effort. His limbs tremble in the process, especially when the one-eyed dunmer offers a hand to help support his body. He promptly backs away in defense, and is quickly on his feet.

“There you go. Do you have a name?”

Servyn is about to respond with the same meticulously practiced “Servyn Fetcher, apprentice of Telvanni Master Arvosi Veran” spiel he’s given a thousand times before, but he stops to think for a moment. He begins with “Ser”, but it comes out raspy and sends him in a bout of weak coughs. How long had he been asleep? He felt terribly dehydrated.

The one-eyed dunmer retrieves a glass bottle with a bit of water in it from the floor and offers it to him. “This was yours. It was full when the deckhand left it for you, though some of the other prisoners must’ve stolen sips from it while we were both asleep. I woke up early. Made sure nobody got to it again.”

Servyn didn’t hear a single word the Dunmer said. He snatches the bottle and gulps down what little water is left, which wasn’t at all enough to quench his thirst, but it was enough to allow him to talk. He ponders for a bit on what to say, then speaks.

“My name is Servyn. Just Servyn.” He spoke each syllable carefully, pronouncing it as “Ser-vine” rather than the usual “Ser-vin”. It felt…good. Free. He’s not a servant. Not anymore.

The Dunmer hums in approval. He glances towards the other prisoners whispering amongst themselves in their own groups. “I heard them say we’ve reached Morrowind. I’m sure the guards will let us go.”

 _Morrowind_. Just like the voice from his dreams said. Before Servyn had the chance to stew over the mysterious coincidence, the sound of heavy steel against wood booms from up above them, growing louder as the steps got closer. All the prisoners hush up immediately and stay very still, waiting for the arbiter of their new life in this new land to hand them their fates. Said arbiter—a stern Imperial guard—marches into the prisoner hold and surveys the collective of frozen-in-fear bodies until he stops in front of Servyn. The guard dwarfs him in both height and weight, causing him to wilt in his presence. “You. Come with me.”

Servyn doesn’t say goodbye to the one-eyed dunmer—the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend. He instinctually obeys his orders and sticks close behind the guard as they ascend the shaky wooden steps of the lower deck. They stop in front of a trap door.

“They’re waiting for you outside,” the guard says. “Up you get.”

With great effort, Servyn pushes open the heavy trap door. All at once, a million different things flood his senses: bright morning sunlight nearly blinding his eyes (which had previously grown accustomed to the dark, dreary underbelly of the prison ship), intensely thick musky air that smelled and tasted like rotten bog and salt (a smell that was somehow worse than the stench of sweaty unhygienic prisoners), and the jarring mish-mash of rustic Imperial homesteads against very not-Imperial swamplands and people. It looked nothing like Morrowind—not the Morrowind Servyn knew and bummed around in. _Was_ this even Morrowind? The one-eyed dunmer must’ve been mistaken.

“—be right there with you shortly.”

Servyn blinks. Suddenly the world starts moving again, and towering above him is a middle aged Redguard. He wears the same Imperial steel armor as the others, though his face and demeanor is much kinder. He repeats himself, though speaks just as patiently as the first time.

“Head down to the dock right there. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Servyn once again obeys without thinking, hobbling his way off the ship and onto the dock. Just as the Redguard said, someone new—another Imperial guard—approaches. Who is this? Where is this? _Why is this_? Nothing made any sense, the magicka-draining bracers felt heavier than ever, and another steel-clad soldier who he didn’t know and had no chance of defending himself against is getting closer and closer. He turns around, but the prison boat has already sailed away—too far away to jump back on board. He darts his eyes to the murky water that surrounds the dock—it’s green and viscous, near opaque from all the sludge gurgling and bubbling like one of Arvosi’s strange batches of failed alchemical experiments. Servyn weighs his options.

“I wouldn’t jump in there, lest you want to be picked off by slaughterfish.”

The Imperial soldier doesn’t make an attempt to get closer. He wears an expecting look, as if knowing Servyn will choose cooperation over becoming slaughterfish bait. He doesn’t acquiesce just yet.

“In any case,” the soldier begins, “you’ve arrived in one piece. Though…” he flips through his papers for a bit, and shakes his head. “Our records don’t show from where. Care to fill us in?”

Servyn glances at the water again. The Imperial glowers a bit, and clears his throat.

“First,” Servyn pipes up, “you have to tell me where I am.”

The guard raises an eyebrow. “Morrowind, Vvardenfell district. This is the port village of Seyda Neen.”

Vvardenfell? Servyn had never heard of a “Vvardenfell” district before, and he’d lived on streets all across Morrowind his whole life. Not that he ever had a reason to know about it… Living as a city vagrant was bad enough as it is; living as a swamp vagrant sounded like the short end of the stick compared to death.

“From where have you arrived from?” the soldier repeats, clearly losing his patience.

“The Imperial City...” Servyn wilts a bit, afraid that the Imperial may lash out at him. Oh, if he could only cast spells, he could run across water and escape into the swampy wilderness, or fly past the man with levitation…or immobilize him with paralysis—no, no. Bad idea, that last one. The last thing he needs is to get arrested again, right after he’d just gotten out of prison.

The soldier gives a hum of acknowledgement as he scrawls the answer onto one of the parchments. “I’m sure you’ll fit right in. Follow me.”

Inside the Census and Excise building, an elderly Breton stands by a desk adorned with more paperwork. “Ah!” he chimes upon seeing Servyn. “We’ve been expecting you. Pull up a seat and fill out the release papers there.

This time, Servyn does not obey. He stands put at the door, hugging it as much as possible. “Why?”

“We require a record of your basic information before official release.” The Breton wears a patient smile.

“That’s…it?”

“Yes.”

“If I fill out those papers…I can go?”

The Breton nods. “You may fill them out yourself, or I can ask you questions to assist in the process. The choice is yours.”

No. It couldn’t be that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. After everything the Empire did to throw him in prison as well as going through the trouble of shipping him to Morrowind—there’s no chance in Oblivion they would just let him go so easily. There had to be a catch, and Servyn didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out what it was. For the first time in his life, he wouldn’t obey.

The Breton caught on to Servyn’s discomfort. “I understand the voyage here mustn’t have been easy, Dunmer. Perhaps there is something we can do to ease your tensions?”

An idea, a single spark of an idea that was possibly very stupid and very risky. If he could only get the bracers off…

“I should like to fill out the papers…” Servyn begins, accentuating the exhaustion in his voice (which didn’t really require too much acting on his part to sound convincing), “but these irons around my arms are terribly heavy, and their enchantments have me drained to near death…”

The friendly disposition of the Breton falters into suspicion, but only for a second. He looks to the accompanying soldier for approval, who in turn looks to another heavier-clad soldier—their captain, presumably, for an answer. This soldier raises an eyebrow at Servyn, looking him over whilst muttering something about a pathetic ugly looking creature.

Well, he could look even more pathetic and ugly! Servyn looks to the chair by the release papers and decides he could trip over it and look even more incompetent, but taking the first step away from the door proved too taxing for his already shaking and weakened knees to handle, turning him into a crumpled mess on the floor. Not exactly what he planned to do, but it would have to do. The captain glares at him, but gives a defeated sigh.

“Fine. Unlock them, Socucius.”

The Breton approaches Servyn in the same manner one would approach a wild animal. Servyn doesn’t hesitate to offer his arms to the man, who promptly unlocks the braces. They fall to the ground with a resounding clank.

“There we go. Now then, the papers. Would you like to fill them out yourself, or answer a few questions?”

Even in the scarce few moments of freedom, Servyn could already feel a bit of magicka returning to his body. Every second felt as if it moved in slow motion. He could hear the Breton speak, but the words blurred together and flowed like muck—incomprehensibly, and slowly.

“Ahem. Dunmer?”

One chance. One chance was all he had, and it was right now. There was one spell Arvosi taught him, one of the first he learned when they first arrived in Cyrodiil. He said if all else failed and he found himself lost or trapped, that this spell would return him to a place of safety, and most importantly in one piece for him to collect his property. Servyn winces at that last part, but if there was even a chance it would take him away from this place, he would take it. What else did he have to lose?

Bringing his arms together, Servyn envelopes himself in a veil of bright violet light. He heard the Breton yelp and the guards rush over in a cacophony of clanking steel to try and stop him, but just as quickly as the light formed, it vanishes—taking its caster with it. Two soldiers collide into eachother in the process of attempting to detain the Dunmer who no longer was there in a crumpled mess of armor and swearing.

The captain stares in utter disbelief as the two soldiers argue with eachother over how the other failed to seize the prisoner on time. The Breton clears his throat and walks over to the desk of papers.

“Ought I just fill in his records as “Mage”, Sellus?”

The captain looked just about ready to burst into anger, but suddenly lit up with an epiphany. “Yes, you may—in fact, fill out everything in his records. Oh, and do inform as many fellow legionaries as you can about our stray “Mage”, would you?”


	4. Halfway Tavern

Servyn opens his eyes as the purplish white light of the Divine Intervention spell disperses into the air. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief to find he is in fact not in the Census and Exile office anymore, but is outside in the middle of a mostly empty military fort courtyard. The few soldiers going about their business take little to no interest in the Dunmer who’s just materialized before them out of thin air—truth be told, most Imperial forts are used to folks teleporting in and out of their premises on a daily basis.

 _Imperial fort_! Just as he feared, banners featuring the unmistakable dragon crest of the Empire decorated stone walls and pillars throughout the premises. He’s frankly had enough of Imperials and the Empire for one lifetime and runs as fast as his still shaking legs could carry him towards a stone archway he hopes is the exit and finds himself in the center plaza of a small village of Imperial cobblestone homes and shops. Villagers go about their quiet lives carrying buckets of water fresh from the well, herding pack guars loaded with baskets of corkbulb roots from the nearby farm down the hill, or disappearing into the local tavern in a gaggle of laughter and merriment.

A town guard leaned against the wall of the general goods store eyes him with disgust—a stranger dressed in filthy rags standing dumbfounded in the middle of the street in a town that didn’t get many visitors at all was just abnormal enough to be suspicious about, and Servyn knew all too well of how willing town guards are to arrest vagrants for sport. Without thinking, he straightens his posture so as to appear confident and strolls down the road leading to the market district as if he did in fact have some business to be here.

Soft flute music wafts through the cobblestone streets, serenaded further by the local pawnbroker’s enthusiastic cries of “quality goods for sale!”, the rhythmic clings and clangs of the blacksmith’s anvil, and chattering women doting over the clothier’s new selection of fine silk scarves. While none of it interested Servyn, he wondered if he should visit a least one shop just to seem like he belonged here. Or should he? Was he really kidding anyone, with how he was dressed? Why was he even trying to appear like anything other than an escaped convict? What was he even doing here!?

A baker rushes by with large trays of fresh breads and pastries, leaving the air with a hearty and sweet aroma. It smelled of heaven…but moreso of dread, as it summons a round of furious grumbling from Servyn’s stomach.

How long has it been since he’d last ate? There was the prison boat—no, he was asleep for most of that. The Imperial City Prison? He hardly touched the watery slop they served him—not out of a picky appetite, but out of more immediately traumatic circumstances overtaking his mind and numbing the rest of his body. Being lost in a strange unfamiliar land with nobody to turn to was also traumatic in itself, but out here, nobody is after him. Nobody is there to tell him what to do or order him around. He has all the time in the world to be lost. All the time in the world to realize how hungry he was.

On the one hand, he had _something_ to do now. On the other hand...he had no idea where to start. Begging was out of the question; it more often than not expedited the process of a swift kick in the gut, or a trip to the jailhouse. Stealing _absolutely_ was also off the table—for obvious moral reasons, of course. Even though it would be so easy to cast an invisibility spell and knick the blacksmith’s scuttle sandwich just sitting _right there_ …

 _No. Get it together_ , he berates to himself. The last thing he needs is to give the Empire another reason to throw him in jail. He was going to have to survive the honest way—with money…that he didn’t have. Money, he concluded, comes from work. He wasn’t adverse to hard labor no matter how degrading it was (“working” for Arvosi made sure of that.) The issue was…there was a reason he lived as a vagrant all throughout his youth and brief adulthood. Few were willing to hire a dirty street rat for anything, and that was _before_ he had a criminal record!

His stomach cuts in with another grouchy rumble, not-so-kindly reminding him that it wasn’t going to wait around for him to stew over where he was going to find work—either find it or starve. He looks around, past the market stalls to further up the hill he came from to the tavern he passed by before. If anyone knew the word around town and could point him towards folks who needed something done, it would be a tavern keeper.

The Halfway Tavern is a small yet cozy hovel filled with cheerful lute music, warm crackling of the freshly lit fireplace, and casual mid-day gambling. It is, like the rest of the town, familiar in that it was very…Imperial, both in architecture and mood. This familiarity, however, didn’t help in assuaging the mountain of queasiness Servyn felt upon shutting the front door, essentially trapping himself in this miserable hell of even more people to avoid eye contact from and the absolute certainty that the reason he came here would inevitably involve talking to someone—that someone being the female Dunmer leaned against the back wall behind the front counter polishing newly cleaned tankards and mugs. She must be the tavern owner. Straightening up into faux-confidence once more, he strides up to the front counter hoping nobody notices the slight wobbling in his legs.

“Greetings, sera! I’m Serv—erm, Servyn!” He stumbles at the new unfamiliar pronunciation of his name, almost calling himself "Ser-vin" again. The barkeep glances up from polishing mugs with a judgemental raise of her eyebrow, though doesn’t make the effort to face him.

“Hmph. Not every day we get outlanders here in Pelagiad. Nevertheless, outlander coin is coin all the same. What’ll you have?”

Servyn gulps. “I don’t…have any coins, so nothing really—er! What I mean to say is, if you have any leads on where to find work so that I may earn coins, then that is what I’ll have!”

The barkeep turns to stow the now clean tankards back behind the counter. She keeps one to pour a mug of sujamma for herself, which she proceeds to down while leaned against the counter, no longer facing or taking interest in Servyn. “Well,” she scoffs, “I’m sure Nirelor’s guars would love a new chewtoy to play with after long days in the fields. Other than that, I doubt anyone here could find use for an _n’wah_.”

 _This isn’t good. She hates me already!_ A part of Servyn expected this and wants to give up and leave, but a stronger, hungrier part of him couldn’t afford to let it go. There was…one option. One very dubious option. Involving magic. Again.

He hides his hands behind his back. To the untrained eye, this was nothing more than an instinct to appear polite, but in actuality, it was to hide the subtle movements of his fingers drawing out an incantation. He hoped this would be the last time he had to rely on magic to get out of sticky situations.

“Please, sera! Surely there’s other work a mer could help with? Some cleaning, maybe? Why, there’s a spilled liquor bottle right over there!”

A greenish white light sparks from his hand—a light only visible to him.

The barkeep pauses from taking a long swig. “You’ve got guts to insult my tavern, outlander. Keep it up, and you may have a story to tell when you meet your ancestors.”

Almost done. “M-much apologies, sera! I meant no disrespect, only an offer to help tidy up, should you be on the lookout for a cleaner…”

The Charm spell was ready. Pointing it at the barkeep wasn’t an option—it would look too suspicious. He’d have to blindly cast it and hope it reaches her, somehow. With all the willpower he can muster, he tosses the spell upwards and watches the light disperse…somewhere. He waits eagerly for her demeanor to change.

The Dunmer woman swigs the last of her drink and slams it onto the counter.

“No, I’m _not_ looking for a cleaner. _You_ ought to look for another tavern to grovel to.”

_Maybe the spell just hasn’t kicked in yet?_

“Please, I have nowhere else to go—“

“I'm not merely _suggesting_ you find another tavern to loiter in. Leave, or I’ll call the guards.”

She sounds serious. Was this the end? Was there even a point to leaving and trying to beg other shopkeepers for a job? Maybe that farmer really was looking for a guar’s chewtoy? Resigned to this fate, Servyn mutters a very instinctual and meek “Yes, sera” and turns around, only to meet a tall female Argonian dressed in blue robes towering before him. Not for the first time, Servyn fails to suppress a fearful squeak.

“Tevos, my friend!”

The barkeep raises an eyebrow at the Argonian—she was a well paying regular patron at the tavern, didn’t buy much liquor and mostly kept to herself and her studies. She seemed just as surprised by this sudden appearance as Servyn was.

“We didn’t see you come in, so sorry for this blunder. He’s with me, sera, we’ll stay over here and bother you no more…”

Before Servyn can ask what’s going on, he’s ushered away by the Argonian and led to a table by a window far from the front counter. It’s littered with books and research papers. Once the shock of what happened wears off, he switches to full on panic and assessment over the…assailant? Guard? A normal citizen who just decided on a whim to pick on him specifically? He needed to know.

The Argonian is tall—taller than most women. Her scales are a pale tan, save for a faded orange patch along the inner center of her neck, which is mostly covered by a light blue scarf. Ornate cloth adornments hang from her horns, which are short and broken at the tips. Her robes look as if they’re some sort of guild regalia, as they bear a prominent insignia of a large eye. Servyn grew on edge to this—guilds and factions often meant some sort of relationship with authorities. He watches intently as she returns to her seat and lies back with her arms crossed behind her head. Her eyes are closed until she lazily opens one. Servyn flinches at the aquamarine reptilian gaze fixated on him.

“I am Il-Tei, humble mage. You are Dunmer, who is probably not named Tevos. We know this. But we do not know its true name, and perhaps it is a generous Dunmer who would share this with us!” She smiles warmly—a smile that on its own was inviting enough to crack through the tough exterior years of anxiety and distrust naturally placed around Servyn’s heart. Just a crack. A small one. He refuses to answer in the form of staring down at the table.

The Argonian sighs, though not in a disappointed manner. “If not speak then sit, friend! Share in this hearth of mine, we insist! It already shares one thing with her, for it is involved in the magical arts—a fellow mage, no?”

_How did she...?_

"Please, tell us! You _are_ a mage, yes?"

She wasn’t wrong, _technically_ , but calling himself a mage didn’t feel right. He was nothing more than an ex-Telvanni sla— _apprentice_ who was taught magic for no other reason than to upkeep the façade of said apprenticeship—he may have practiced a lot and, in some aspects, mastered spells to a degree that rivals that of his master, but that didn't make him any less of a lowly servant. Mages are smart and cunning folk who know things like what school of magic they specialize in and where to study up and become a better mage…or at the very least are competent enough to find a job and feed themselves!

Catching on to Servyn’s discomfort, she returns her focus to the book she’d been reading. “If we are wrong about the Dunmer, then apologies are in order. It is free to leave us if it feels disrespected.”

In his mind, Servyn breathes a sigh of relief. The Argonian will let him go, and he can return to…well. The charm attempt at the barkeep didn’t work at all, leaving no other leads he could turn to for work. This Pelagiad was small—there weren’t any other taverns to try next. Was he to simply leave town and hope to find a new one before keeling over to starvation? Take the barkeep’s advice and beg the farmer to become a beast’s chewing toy and accept his fate as guar dinner? Or…

Servyn looks to the Argonian, who is still buried in her book, humming contently to the tune of the tavern’s lute player. An empty chair pushed out ever so slightly stands adjacent to her, as if inviting him to sit down. Between the three options he had, two of them would most certainly lead to death, while one would only _probably_ lead to death. Did he really have anything to lose by this point?

In an attempt to casually sit down like a normal person, he instead collapses into it and melts onto the table like a pile of sludge, not realizing how exhausted he was. The Argonian doesn’t look up from her book, but her attention very much is more on Servyn than the pages. The two sit in not-quite-tense silence, which only put him more on edge. Why didn’t he feel completely uncomfortable? Why did the supposed “humble mage” insist he join her only to ignore him in what very well could be an act of mocking his clear desperation. But most importantly—was she going to finish the plate of sweet smelling meats set off to the side of her scattered notes?

The Argonian finally glances towards Servyn, startling him to look away in return.

“Fine weather in the Bitter Coast today, wouldn’t it say?”

 _This is fake hospitality_ , he decides. He’s doesn’t like it. He won't humor it.

“Why did you pretend to know me? And ask me to sit with you?”

The Argonian’s friendly demeanor doesn’t budge.

“Must the want for company require a complicated reason? It is a curious Dunmer—not native to the land of Vvardenfell, for it has come a long way from…?”

Servyn doesn’t respond, still avoiding eye contact at all costs and resisting the urge to ask how she also knew he wasn't from here.

“We understand. Perhaps it can share with us something else? A joke? A thought? A name?” Without thinking, the most honest response on his mind slips out.

“Starving.”

Il-Tei beams—both for the success in coaxing her new friend into speaking and in delight over the confirmation of a shared feeling. “It understands. We are all starved of something—of what? Of knowledge. The possibilities we _could_ know—the possibilities we _should_ know. That is why we seek wisdom from both the known and the unknown. A hungry mind, it would say?”

“A hungry stomach.” Servyn whines.

Il-Tei chuckles. “Of course. It is welcome to our half picked at bits of nix hound flank braised in velk nectar… too sweet for our liking. Much too sweet.”

Servyn doesn’t wait for her to finish before scarfing everything down with his bare hands—in fact, it's all gone before she completes her sentence.

“Do you have anymore?” he asks hopefully. Il-Tei shakes her head, chuckling to herself at the almost child-like frown Servyn gives upon her response. He looks as if he's about to cry.

“Patience, Dunmer. Food will come. Food for the belly…and for the intellect. It is plentiful back home, where I am from—where I will soon return to.”

Servyn grimaces. “Your kind…is from the swamps, right? I don’t want to eat worms…”

At first, Il-Tei snickers. Then, the snickering continued. “Oh, it must stop!” she cries, now erupting in laughter. This only confuses Servyn further. Did he say something wrong? Was the lizard about to turn him into a kwama for insulting her? Could he then lay kwama eggs and have an unlimited feast? Maybe his fate really wasn’t so bad after all…

“The Dunmer is most humorous, most aloof like a small hatchling just learning to walk! But it is smarter than a small hatchling, we know this, for it tried to cast a very powerful Charm spell at the very loud barkeep.”

Oh. He didn’t think anyone noticed that. _Nobody_ should have noticed that. Illusion spells had the useful side effect of being…well, elusive. The light emitted from their casting was only visible to the caster, unless it were a Light spell or the kind of party trick magic you’d watch court jesters perform. The school of Illusion itself, especially mind-altering spells were always heavily looked down upon back in Cyrodiil, often accused of being used for nefarious or manipulative purposes. In all honesty, what he tried to do wasn’t very far off from those descriptors.

“It’s very rare to find such an abundance of skill in a small raggedy thing such as this. Perhaps it could bestow upon us some more?” The Argonian looks genuinely interested. He looks away again.

“The spell didn’t work. Surely you saw the barkeep was about to throw me out?”

“Yes,” Il-Tei hums, “the spell did not work on the tavern woman, because it did not hit the tavern woman. It hit me.”

Servyn pales. Besides the obvious fact that being caught intentionally casting mind-manipulating spells on an innocent party is a crime, the spell itself wasn’t meant to last very long. Soon it will wear off, and the Argonian will realize she’d been tricked by a dirty outlander…then turn him into a kwama! Daydreams about egg feasts aside, he preferred to be an underwhelming Dunmer rather than an underwhelming insect. He had to escape. The tricky part was finding a way to _politely_ make a run for it.

“You are troubled, Dunmer. Where have these troubles come from?”

A gulp. Great. The Argonian was on to him. Does he tell the truth, or tell a lie he can’t even muster up?

“That…spell…”

“Yesss?” Il-Tei perks.

“It should’ve worn off by now.”

“It wore off a long time ago, Not-Tevos.”

Silence. The two stare head on: Servyn as a deer in the headlights and Il-Tei grinning without a care in the world. In a game of who will speak up first, Il-Tei decides for a second time that day to help the poor Dunmer.

“It is charming on its own without Charm magic. In fact, it is very intelligent, to be able to cast such a powerful spell…but sadly not so wise, and struggles to control such power.”

Servyn melts further into his chair and pouts, unsure of whether or not he ought to feel insulted or complimented—he wasn’t very good at handling either one. Il-Tei rises from her chair and begins to collect her belongings.

“I must be off to my home in Balmora—a swamp of sorts, yes, but not the kind you are thinking of. It is welcome to join us, if it wishes to satiate its appetite for wisdom. And for a bit of supper, too. It could use quite a bit of both, no?”

Slinging her satchel of possessions over her shoulder, Il-Tei pushes her chair in, but doesn’t leave. She turns to Servyn as if expecting something of him, but keeps a respectful distance between them.

“Muthsssera?” Il-Tei offers a claw. Servyn blushes terribly—nobody had ever called him by such formalities before. He surprises both of them when he takes it and allows her to help him up. Il-Tei is positively beaming.

“The Dunmer has made its first wise choice! There is hope yet. Hope…and progress.”


	5. Balmora

“So…the Dunmer calls himself Servyn?”

Said Dunmer who calls himself Servyn does not budge from his spot huddled on the floor of the travelling carriage, hidden from the softly-gurgling waddling guars pulling them along the Bitter Coast road. He looks up to nod shyly, but quickly returns his gaze to the floor.

“Mm. Servyn is still troubled. But we have reassured him that he is accepted with or without a Charm spell!”

 _She’s only saying that to be nice._ Nobody really means it when they try to tell you you’re accepted. _But isn’t being nice for the sake of politeness still being nice?_

“Erm. I…heard the farmer’s guars…eat Dunmer…”

The supposed Dunmer-eating guars blink sleepily, though tread on dutifully, not once shifting their gaze anywhere but forward. Il-Tei chuckles.

“A silly rumor, nothing more. They like to chew, but that is all.”

Servyn curls in on himself further. For all the wisdom old age bestows upon Il-Tei, she too can learn new things. Right now she learns that the Dunmer who calls himself Servyn wishes to be left alone, for the most part. She turns to the front of the cart—to its rider.

“Aye, Nirelor! Have the roads been treating you well?”

“Nothing stranger than the usual mating betty netch off the side of the road and occasional highwayman. ‘Ol Nella had a good bite out of the last one’s pants, though I think the Nord’s undergarments might’ve been guarskin. Here’s hopin’ the poor girl didn’t eat ‘em. I mean, wouldn’t that be cannibalism?”

“Mmm…an interesting question, my friend!” Il-Tei seems genuinely invested in a very nothing subject… Servyn wonders if that’s why she’s so intent on prodding him for small talk. Was there anything of value to learn about him? No. He knows that better than anyone—yet she still asked as they left the tavern, and even up until the moment Il-Tei gasped as the cart rider had already left, prompting the use of a Feet of Notorgo spell to catch up to him, she huffed and puffed about how “It simply must tell us more once we board the carriage!”

Yet she hasn’t asked him anything in the half hour since they hopped on to the passenger’s seats—completely uninvited, mind you. If ever there was evidence whatever god out there was merciful, it would be the fact that the flustered Bosmer didn’t immediately stop the wagon and threaten to call guards if they didn’t leave. Even stranger: the Bosmer quickly changed his tune from startled to jovial the moment he realized it was Il-Tei who boarded his cart.

“Well, I think it is. But…no! The girls would never do that, they’re smart.”

“Animals eat other animals, Nirelor… Then again, Nella and Shauschi are more than mere animals…”

“That’s right! They’re family.”

 _Family doesn’t mean anything,_ Servyn broods.

“A guar family wouldn’t eat one of their own, true,” Il-Tei drawls, “but they may prepare themselves a feast of other animals…scrib pie, perhaps?”

_My family would’ve sooner eaten me than made something for all of us to eat together._

“Eh? With those arms? They’re better off grazing on wickwheat. Least that wouldn’t require holding a fork and spoon!”

_Well, I could eat me too! I’m starving…_

Ever the master of bad timing, Servyn’s stomach interrupts all three of their thoughts with raucous grumbling. Il-Tei gives him a sad look, sympathetic to the fact that the food she gave him in the tavern wasn’t much, and in the rush to catch Nirelor, they didn’t have time to stop by the market and pick up a proper meal. Servyn avoids her gaze as if it meant death to acknowledge it.

“Everything alright, Illy?” calls Nirelor.

Servyn curls up tighter.

“Ah…that was my belly. So sorry for the unpleasant noise interrupting the cliff racer screeches and kagouti dueling. Now _that’s_ music, would he not say?”

Nirelor nods. “A tune as good as home for me, yeah. But hey—“ he digs through one of the guar’s packs and tosses a bundle of hackle-lo to Il-Tei. “You need anything, all you haf’ta do is ask!”

Il-Tei grins, handing the bundle down to Servyn. “Ever the kind soul you are, dear Nirel! Too kind for this old lizard…”

As the Bosmer sputters back to Il-Tei about how it “isn’t a big deal, you’ve done plenty for me and the girls,” Servyn tears into the leaves, though takes care to not chew all of it up right away. Once upon a time he survived mostly on hackle-lo, for it’s a quite flavorful plant that helps soothe hunger pangs when chewed, despite the leaves themselves not being very filling. Maybe the Bosmer wasn’t so bad after all.

Servyn tugs on Il-Tei’s robe. She immediately gives him her full attention, wearing an excited gaze for what he has to say.

“The Bosmer is…he’s taking us to…Bal-mora?”

Nodding, Il-Tei gets up from the cart seat and motions Servyn to follow suit. He reluctantly complies, peeking his head just slightly out to where the Argonian gazes upon the horizon—to a large opening wedged between two black rocky pillars. The dirt road of the Bitter Coast ends abruptly at what looks like a path made of ash and obsidian, beginning where the pillars stand tall and looming.

“That’s Foyada Mamaea. It will take us to Balmora.”

“Foy…ada?”

“Yes. It means _fire river_.”

“Fire river!?” Servyn blurts. “You mean... _real_ fire? _Burning death_ fire? We’re going _there_?”

Il-Tei lays a claw on his shoulder.

“The fire has long since disappeared. Look there.”

She points off to a distant volcano within what appears to be a wall of magic. “That’s Red Mountain—the beating heart of Vvardenfell. It gives us fire. Lots of and lots of powerful fire, which trickles down the mountain, consuming the earth in its path—creating the foyadas.

_And the wall of magic is there because…?_

Il-Tei relaxes back into the cart to admire the volcano. “They say a great god lives in the mountain, watching over the entire island. Long ago, nomadic Dunmer were forced to scale perilous mountains just to cross Molag Amur to Azura’s Coast, the Grazelands, even to the Bitter Coast…so on, and so forth. The god felt pity for its people, and so commanded Red Mountain to erupt clear the great hills, giving us foyadas.”

The cart reaches the towering rocky pillars that mark the entrance to Foyada Mamaea. The ground is lifeless, devoid of any green, and still smells of charred stone. _Seems more like a desolate wasteland than a gift from a god_.

“I think _you’re_ the only one who says that, Illy.” Nirelor chuckles to himself, then looks to his guars. “Bet you two a hundred drakes none of _our_ “gods” would be as generous as Illy’s imaginary mountain spirit, eh?”

Il-Tei’s expression turns cold. Despite it not being directed at him, Servyn wilts at the unusually serious demeanor.

“Nirelor. Do _not_ speak like that in the city.”

The cart is quiet, but only for a bit.

“Well, we’re not _in_ the city yet! What’s the harm in a couple laughs in the foyada, eh?”

“The Ordinators will not laugh with you.”

The Bosmer sighs. “No, they certainly won’t.”

“Fun is fun, yes. We only worry for Nirelor’s safety.”

“I know, Illy.”

Servyn isn’t sure whether the next ten minutes is an uncomfortable silence, or the natural kind of silence that comes when nothing more needs to be said. Il-Tei no longer looks serious. She admires the ashen mountains enveloping the equally blackened road, calm as ever.

“What…” Servyn peeps. “What did the Bosmer say? That was…?”

She looks sad now. Servyn likes this look even less than her stern face.

“Yes, we must tell you. Listen to me, Servyn—this is important to know no matter where you are in Vvardenfell. When you are given “Three Blessings, sera!”, you too must return “Three Blessings, sera!”. Do not refuse. The gold hats—Ordinators, will not like it, and they are not known for their mercy. It understands Il-Tei, yes?”

 _She’s rather forward_ , Servyn thinks, _to assume he’s going to live here long enough to need such information, let alone live at all!_ Nevertheless, he nods, and her sadness turns once again to a soft smile. He smiles a bit too, but only on the inside.

“Foyada Mamaea is vast; we will be on the road for a while. Rest and nibble the hackle-lo—I will call you when we are close.”

Servyn obeys.

Hours pass in uneventful mostly-peace. The guars burble every now and then, sometimes Il-Tei and Nirelor talk about something through words hushed by the cloth barrier between him and the inner carriage, but for the most part Servyn lies content against the wooden seating gobbling the last of the hackle-lo. He still feels…uncomfortably empty, but at least his stomach was quiet.

This overall silence, though long lived, came to an abrupt stop at the ringing echo of…something. Something big, from the sheer power of its cry.

It sounded like…

Some months back, he and Arvosi travveled to the southern shorelines of a big ocean—the Topal Bay, as he remembered it. It was a typical out of town trip: Arvosi read books on the comfy sidelines (in this case, the beach) while Servyn collected alchemy reagents in an unfamiliar and probably dangerous place (in this case, ocean fish out in the middle of nowhere). He’d water-walked out to sea for a few miles until a powerful echoing deep cry startled him so much it interrupting the channeling of his spell and caused him to plummet into the freezing salty water. The first thing he saw when surfacing was a great big beast with dark blue skin and fins that were as long as bird’s wings rise to the surface—slowly, as it truly was an enormous creature that could easily dwarf the Imperial vessels of the Waterfront, and crash into an explosion of water. _Were they close to the water?_

Peeking his head outside of the inner carriage reveals them to be descending the apex of a hill surrounded by grassy plains engulfed in late night darkness, with a shining heart at the end of the long veiny road—a city, judging by the dots of lights illuminating strange blocky stone buildings. Il-Tei sat at the front sitting area dozed off. The rider yawns, but keeps his focus trained forward. Not wanting to disturb Il-Tei, Servyn musters every drop of courage he can to speak to the Bosmer.

“A-a…aye?”

Nirelor perks up.

“Aye! You’re the Dunmer, yeah?”

“Y-yes. Is that Balmora down there?”

“A wise observation, Servyn!”

Servyn abruptly turns back to find Il-Tei rubbing her eyes. “N’chow! How late it is… So sorry for drifting away; we are old and ill equipped to the life of a nocturnal traveller. Fortunately, even at this hour, Balmora is bustling and jubilant—a strapping young f’lah of bountiful energy and surprise whom never sleeps, never stops…and never fails to impress. Servyn will like it here, for it is very much like him.”

Ignoring yet another compliment he’s incapable of comprehending, he clears his throat.

“What was that sound? Are we close to the ocean?”

“Ocean?” Il-Tei chuckles. “Not quite…unless you mean to say Balmora is a sea of stone, as that would be correct. The sound you refer to is her captain's ship: the silt strider. Can you see the large arthropod?”

Indeed, something _like_ an arthropod stood just outside the city’s walls. Its legs were long, and had two sickle-like arms along with a carved out hole in its back. Servyn nods reluctantly.

“Good. You will cross paths with her, and many like her, all throughout Vvardenfell. The silt striders travel between major cities, and are much faster on foot than carriages and guar.”

“Hey, but they’re not as _friendly_ as carriages and guar,” Nirelor retorts loudly.

“No, I suppose not,” Il-Tei agrees. She yawns again, and looks anxiously to the sky. “But it _is_ quite late. We’ve important business to attend to at the guild, and not much time left to do such attending. Perhaps you may be the first mer to prove the speed of guar can rival that of the silt strider, eh Nirelor?”

“Another challenge of yours, Illy?”

She grins. “Challenge? For the girls? You know better than that, Nirel…”

“Hyah! You’re right! Make haste, Nella! Show your wings, Shauschi! There’s fine grade wickwheat waiting for us at the Lucky Lockup, after all!”

The Bosmer and his guars were by no means an understatement. In no time at all, the cart careens through the grand banner-clad stone archway of Balmora and past crowds of people—respectfully sized crowds, given how late it was. Nirelor seizes the reins and pulls them back.

“Woah, woah! Easy girls, we’re here. That’s it, there’s a good guar. Phew. Right then—”

Before the carriage slows to a full stop, Il-Tei tosses Nirelor a satchel of clinking coins and steps off her seat and onto the streets, urging the shy peeping gaze of Servyn, who only barely showed himself from within the carriage, to do the same. He follows, though his legs weren’t quite prepared for the strength needed to land gracefully from even the most pitiful of leaps, and crumples to the ground for goodness knows what amount of tumbles and collapses he’s endured over the past few days. Both Il-Tei and Nirelor startle and ask if he’s okay, but he gets up as quick as he can and brushes them off with a terse “I’m fine.”

“Mm. In any case, you’ve proven yourself reliable as always, Nirelor. Thank you for your service.”

Nirelor blushes. “Anytime, Illy!” He counts the drakes within the satchel and reels back. “Wait. This is too much!”

“Hush, husshhhh… Nirel is a fine rider, deserving of so much more than he asks, and double of what we have given him. Do no argue with me—it is not wise to oppose a mage!”

Nirelor shakes his head, though wears a great big smile. “You’re right. Three Blessings, Illy.”

“Three Blessings,” she hisses back, though not with venom directed at her friend. Nirelor knows this, and gives one last nod before he and his guars waddle away towards a lantern-adorned street many others crowd through. Il-Tei directs Servyn down a less populated hole-in-the-wall wedged between what sounds like another tavern and a bickering couple’s home, both of which ruckus and music can be heard through the surprisingly thin stone walls. They weave through crates, barrels, and discarded liquor bottles, with no more than scarce light from overhanging bugshell lanterns guiding them through a very cramped and foul smelling pathway that he could’ve sworn reeked of Imperial wine and skooma (this soon being confirmed with a look up to the rooftops, where a cloud of its characteristic smoke swirls around a lanky Dunmer sipping greedily from his pipe). Servyn makes to ask a question, but is hushed quickly.

“Shhhh…there are many things yet to tell you about Balmora…at another time. We’re here.”

They emerge into a small plaza of mostly small shops. Two larger buildings stand off the side of these, both of which seem too grand to be a store or tavern. Il-Tei reaches for a key in her satchel and approaches the structure on the right. Through the faint light of a string of blue lanterns, Servyn makes out a wooden sign bearing the same eyeball insignia as Il-Tei’s robe. It swishes gently with the evening breeze.

“Come in, com in,” she whispers at the click of the lock. Once again, Servyn obeys for no other reason than the resignation that he has no other choice in the matter, but just as quickly as enters, he nearly bolts right back out into the streets.

A pair of glowing eyes—not Il-Tei’s, for these are large and feline, stares directly at him. Its owner purrs in what very well could be the sneer of a predator reveling in the presence of weak prey, and it was obvious that weak prey wasn’t Il-Tei.

“Illy! Sweet sugar roll…what has this one brought to us?”

Noticing the frightened look and unusually pale skin in her friend, Il-Tei steps between the eyes and Servyn and casts a Light spell, revealing them to belong to a scruffy Khajiit with orange fur and dark brown stripes. Under less tense circumstances, Servyn would compare her appearance to the much beloved soft-faced housecats often praised for their cute charm by Imperial nobles. But now, as the Khajiit examines him like a hunter? She may as well belong among the huge warrior Khajiit that frequented the Arena.

“Shhh, it’s okay. This is our sweet dearest Ajira.” Il-Tei embraces the Khajiit and pecks her on the nose. She purrs softer and swishes her tail around to fully embrace her beloved. “Servyn can trust her just as much as he trusts Il-Tei. Please, follow us.”

That Khajiit must’ve cast some kind of Calm spell on him without him noticing. That was the only explanation he had as to why his legs followed the two mages dutifully, and why the suffocating knot of fear in his chest was now just a dull ache. Il-Tei breathes light into the magic lanterns adorning the walls with the flick of her claw to illuminate the main hall, though this did little to quell the intimidating presence of this "Ajira". Why does she eye him so closely, as if he’s some kind of strange anomaly? Of all the unremarkable Dunmer one could ever meet, he was by far the most unremarkable of them all.

Il-Tei reaches into her satchel once more and pulls out a brass necklace, bringing it between Servyn and Ajira.

“A fine Dwemer trinket, Aji! Very fine…and very rare! Not very shiny, though… The Pelagiad pawnbroker could do with caring more diligently for his artifacts…”

The Khajiit loses interest in Servyn to marvel at the necklace—but only for a few moments. “That is okay, the necklace is beautiful all the same. But this one fibs, ah? She _has_ brought something shiny…” Now she’s back to observing Servyn. “A diamond in stone: rough around the edges, yet bright as the twin moons…”

 _She couldn’t be more wrong. About everything._ But he couldn’t say that out loud.

“A new friend, dearest. He will stay with us for the night. But first, a bit of supper, eh? The diamond is hungry.”

“ _Supper_? It’s nearly midnight.”

“This is true!” Il-Tei hums as she heads down the hallway that leads towards the kitchen. The Khajiit shakes her head, though doesn’t wear a look of disappointment. She tuts over what is yet another one of her partner’s antics with a smirk, and makes to follow her, but pauses to turn to Servyn. “This one should take a seat at the dinner table, and stay there. Do not wander into unfamiliar rooms. The other mages will not like this.”

If he were being honest, _he_ didn’t like this either. But where else did he have to go? What else did he have to do? Servyn nods, planting himself into a chair.

“Good,” the Khajiit purrs. “Ajira and Illy will return in a bit.”

He definitely didn’t like this. Why would she ask him to wait here, without so much as an order to assist? He’s a stranger here! If anything, he should be the one doing the cooking, and the cleaning, and the…well, everything. That’s all he knew how to do. Now that the Khajiit was gone, Servyn had little to focus on but the guild hall itself. It was similar to the Arcane University’s classrooms, though on a less opulent scale: a room tucked back into the center wall is dedicated to an alchemy laboratory, one corner in the main hall to a podium and lined up seats (a lecture area?), another corner being a library doubling as what looked to be a sitting area, and the small dining area he now sits at, and cannot leave. Near the alchemy lab is a large circular stone pad that looked a bit like the summoning altar that Arvosi used to conjure dremora when he desired “intelligent company for teatime”, but surely that wasn't something everyone did?

Before he could turn his attention back to the alchemy lab to check and see if he could maybe clean something, the altar suddenly bursts into a flurry of white purple-ish light, revealing two women who, for better or worse, were not dremora: a Dunmer with long hair dressed in a sapphire blue robe and a Bosmer in a similarly extravagant yellow dress striding through the light’s threshold, only to stop in their tracks to lock eyes with the equally startled Dunmer sat at the dining table across the hall. The women glance towards eachother for a moment, and the Dunmer slowly approaches with a discerning glare.

“Who are you?”

He could ask the same thing! Were they friends of Il-Tei? Should he say something? Run away? Smite her with Greater Lightning Strike?

The Bosmer steps forward and speaks.

“Are you perhaps a prospective apprentice?”

Gods no! He hoped that wasn’t why Il-Tei brought him here. If it were a cleaning mer or indentured servant they wanted, then he could do that. But not magic. It was magic that got him thrown into jail and shipped off to Morrowind in the first place.

_It was also magic that saved your sorry excuse for an existence several times over._

"Well? Speak!" the Dunmer woman demands. _Speaking it is._

“Er…Three Blessings?”

The women raise their eyebrows. “I see,” the Dunmer sighs. She retreats to the library for a moment and returns with a book. “Here,” she scoffs, tossing it onto the table in front of Servyn, “typical lost pilgrim without a potion or scroll of Almsivi Intervention. Don’t go expecting any more handouts from the Mages Guild, f’lah—you’re lucky I’m permitting you to read our spell tome to begin with.”

Not quite understanding why he was given a spell tome to read, Servyn opens it on principle of obeying orders from what seemed like an authority figure (though he made yet another mental note to stop doing that.) The incantation signs and words of this "Almsivi Intervention" are similar to Divine Intervention, but the destination of this teleportation is quite different. Perhaps it’s good he’s learning such a spell, as he’d sooner be caught dead than in an Imperial Fort again.

“Galbedir, you’ll show this…transient out, won’t you?”

The Bosmer groans, but nods. “Fine. Come with me, Dunmer.”

_But what about Il-Tei and the Khajiit? They told me to sit here. But these women are telling me to leave. And I’m telling myself to listen to one or the other. But who should it be!?_

Right on the dot, a cheerful “Servyn, we’ve plenty of supper—“ arrives just as quickly as it stops with a disappointed “Ah.”

“Tei!” The Dunmer woman explodes at Il-Tei and Ajira, both of whom carry a platter of kwama eggs, and…guar sausage…roasted marshmerrow...and ash yam stew? Was that ash yam stew? Servyn was well enough distracted and unaware of the tension between the mages. In fact, what was he lamenting over just a minute ago?

“Did you two bring a vagrant into the guild?” Now the Bosmer joins into the judgement. Before either respond, Il-Tei and Ajira place their platters down in front of Servyn, Il-Tei giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder and whispering him to “Please eat to your heart’s wishes”, though Servyn already dug in before hearing her request. “Now then…is there a problem, Ranis?”

The Dunmer woman pinches the bridge of her nose. “When I said the guild is always looking for new applicants and to always keep an eye out, I didn’t mean direct your eye to…” she glares at Servyn, who’s just finished cracking the shell of a large kwama egg and slurping the yolk as one does a bowl of soup, completely disregarding stray drops of egg dripping down his mouth and onto his still filthy prison rags. “Gods, where in Oblivion _did_ you scoop up a scuttleheaded n’wah like _that_ , and by Vivec’s grace, _why_?”

Ajira steps in, noting the anger boiling up in her partner. “Such unkind words…You know nothing of this Dunmer’s potential, nor does Galbedir—nor Ajira for that matter! Illy never gives her attention and praise lightly, which means this Dunmer is special. If Ranis would be so understanding as to allow for an initiation test tomorrow morning, perhaps this one will realize her perspective.”

“Initiation test?” Ranis laughs. “For _him_? He’s better off groveling to the Temple for wishing well drakes—it’s _their_ job to be charitable. It’s _ours_ to recruit competent mages.”

“He _is_ a competent mage, Ranis.” Il-Tei holds back much of her fury, despite how much she’d love to give their stubborn Guildmaster a good talking-to, consequences be damned. “We experienced the strength of his magic firsthand, for he cast a very powerful Charm spell—by _accident_ , Galbedir. There’s no need to cry assault. In any case, we will personally put our reputation on the line to endorse Servyn, and humbly request you sanction an official initiation test tomorrow morning. What do you say, Ranis?”

Ranis chuckles. The chuckling continues for a good minute, though she clears her breathe for a moment of dignity. “Really. A Charm spell? That fetcher really got you with a Charm spell?” It doesn’t take long for both her and Galbedir to erupt into laughter. Il-Tei stands her ground, and takes hold of Ajira’s hand once noticing the beginnings of anger boiling in her as well. “And now you want to _endorse_ such a ragged pathetic thing! Why, it almost compels me to actually agree to such nonsense!”

“Then do it, _muthsera_. Ranis wishes for laughs, and she may find laughs in this decision, and Il-Tei may find satisfaction in being proven right. Everybody wins.”

The Guildmaster settles down, rubbing a tear from her eye. “Well now, you’re quite the master of coming up with silly _challenges_ , eh Tei? Very well. You’ll have your initiation test tomorrow. I’m sure the entire guild will revel in such fine entertainment—no doubt it will trounce the Eight Plates’ circus shows—and we won’t even have to leave our front doors! Wonderful. I look forward to it.”

Il-Tei breathes a sigh of relief, as does Ajira. “Good! It’s settled, tomorrow it shall—“

She stops to find Servyn lying hunched over the table resting in his arms. His stomach looked more bloated than before, which explained why both platters were completely picked clean. He attempts to turn his head a bit to acknowledge them with a whimpered “Three Blessings?”

“Servyn! Oh, poor Servyn…we only brought so much because we did not know what he would like. He did not have to eat _everything_ in front of him…”

_Yes I did! This very well could be the last time I see food ever again._

Servyn doesn’t attempt a retort, outside of gluing his eyes to the floor. Il-Tei sighs, laying a claw on his shoulder.

“Come, we will help you to a bed. Aji, would you mind—?”

“Not at all,” Ajira replies, scooping up the dishes and cutlery. Ranis watches in dismay, crossing her arms as Il-Tei allows the Dunmer to lean against her and gently guide them both to the living quarters.

“Tei,” she calls.

“Take it out of my pay, if you must collect fees like an innkeeper.” She tries not to hiss. She hears Ranis respond, but is able to take a sharp turn down the foyer hallway and into a vacant bedroom before hearing what she had to say.

“We’re here. It is ready to sleep now?”

Servyn nods, allowing Il-Tei to support him into bed. He falls into it, lying on his back with his long hair spilling haphazardly over the sheets.

“Urp…I’m more egg than mer…”

“Hush…we know this. But our plump little egg must rest, for tomorrow he will pass the initiation test to become a full fledged member of the Mages Guild. Only then can he stay here without judgment from Ranis Athrys…”

Servyn whines in acknowledgement, though finds himself more distracted by sudden comfort. He hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he’d actually laid down on a real bed until curling up on the soft cushiony mattress and feeling as if he’d been transported into an alternate heavenly dimension where stomachaches and Imperial guards didn’t exist. Il-Tei smiles, though with a hint of sadness that something so simple as a bed had her new friend so awestruck, as if he were so unused to basic comfort. She places a claw on Servyn’s head, ruffling it with affection.

“Goodnight, Servyn.”

She pulls a blanket over him and turns to head back to hers and Ajira’s quarters.

“Il-Tei?”

At the anxious hushed voice, Il-Tei stops.

“What if…I don’t pass the initiation? Won’t the Guildmaster throw me out into the streets?”

“You won’t fail, I promise. You are very intelligent.”

“But not wise! You said so! What if I can’t control my spells again, and somebody gets hit with a fireball…or I Silence myself? If there’s any mage who would muck things up so badly that they would Silence themself, it would be—“

“Ah! We are so proud of you!”

Servyn blinks, dumbfounded. Il-Tei beams with pride.

“For the first time, Servyn calls himself a mage. That is most important, for the Mages Guild loves mages. You will pass with ease.”

“But—“

“Shhhhh…eggs do not speak, we all know this. But they may dream of pleasant things like singing guar and passing important tests. This egg shall find out, hm?”

It seems he has no choice but to find out, if only for Il-Tei’s sake. He nods, and the Argonian nods back, disappearing with the soft click of the door. For a while, it was quiet. The kind of listless quiet that could stop time entirely. Servyn wished more than just time would stop entirely, but is too exhausted to dwell on the specifics of that wish. His eyes grow heavy, the world turns darker, and for once he’s all too willing to let total darkness envelope him completely—that is until a distant “B’vehk!” from the hallway rings faintly, but audibly enough to wake his senses. Curiosity and a potent Detect Life spell grants him the ability to hear the ensuing conversation from afar.

“I already agreed to let that scrib-for-brains vagrant try the initiation test. Don’t make me regret that decision, Tei.”

“Oh pish, Ranis! So cruel, you are…”

“Cruel? We’re a _guild_ , not a hostel.”

“That food couldn’t have cost more than what you make selling cheap disease-curing potions to travellers too poor to go to the Temple. Surely the guild isn’t so desperate for coin that it can’t afford actual charity for once.”

“We’re not a charity either.”

“Mm. In any case, we would bet a week’s wages that the new limeware platter Galbedir so lovingly brags about is worth ten times as much—

“Of course money isn’t an issue,” the guild steward replies. “Not for the guild, anyway. I’m merely concerned for _your_ coinpurse. You’ll have to provide the funds to hire a cleaner when it turns out that transient’s greatest magic trick is vomitting all over the bedroom tomorrow morning, after all.”

Servyn can’t see her face, but he can feel the passive aggressive grin the Guildmaster definitely wore throughout the entire exchange. He didn’t like her. By this point, the only thing he looked forward to out of taking this stupid initiation test was lowering her just a notch from atop the high nix-ox she seems to think she occupies. Oh, how he wished he could get up right now and tell her his inevitable failure isn’t Il-Tei’s fault, and to insult _him_ to _his_ face tomorrow. _Tomorrow…she may be right. But she is still wrong._


	6. Blades

As it turned out, Ranis was half-right about one thing. To Servyn’s credit, he at least had the decency to swiftly cast Almsivi Intervention and flee to the back alley of the large stone temple before vomiting slurries of half-digested sausage and egg yolk down a sewer manhole—this is fine, right? The Guildmaster _did_ say the temple folk were charitable. Surely they will understand?

Servyn felt too sick to beat himself up over the reality that they probably _won’t_ understand and he _absolutely_ is a massive pile of guar shit for puking into a holy establishment's private property—but he can worry about that another time. Stumbling away from the courtyard, he notices a well nearby and breathes a sigh of relief. For brief moment of respite, he indulges in a much needed guzzle of water and a quick splash to wash his face. Once clean enough, he slumps back against the well. It’s still very early in the morning—the sun hardly shows itself from beyond the mountainous foyada off far in the distance, and the streets are mostly empty save for those too focused on heading to their places of work to pay much attention to the sickly Dunmer slumped against the stone water well.

_Must get up, before the streets get crowded._

A weak attempt to move his body made him feel like throwing up all over again. Even the effort from letting his body go limp and collapse back into the stone made what was still left in his stomach slosh grossly like a bucket of muck. Left with no choice but to lie helplessly and take controlled breaths, he stops. Stops and watches, as the copious narrow winding streets towered over by large stone houses and shops slowly fill up as the sun gradually rises into its full yet obscured view beyond the grey overcast sky—a sight only marginally less gloomy than the people. In Pelagiad, the morning rabble was a dull background noise. In the huge city of Balmora, it _was the noise_. All the noise one could hear, even drowning out inner thoughts. Was he still thinking? He couldn’t tell through _all the noise_.

Even the rooftops teem with life, as if a second city thrives above this lower one. Most of this sky-world is veiled by large colorful tapestries and lanterns hanging from the walls, dancing with the crisp morning wind’s low howling. What little he can see reveals an alarming amount of rooftop wench dancing, guarskin drum playing, and skooma-related consumption. Still, it looks much less chaotic up there than it does down here. Oh, if he could only muster the strength to levitate, he could fly away from the lower streets, past the rooftop-world and into the barren wasteland that was the sky. At least all he’d have to worry about were the cliff racers...

“Hey. Move out of the way, outlander.”

Snapping back into reality, Servyn meets the gaze of an Altmer carrying a bucket. “Some of us should like to fetch water sometime this era.”

Well, now he _had_ to move. He struggles to stand, mumbling a slurred apology, which the Altmer promptly ignores. _Alright. One step forward_.

Walking is agony, but by some miracle he does it. What he wouldn’t give to cast some kind of Cure Feeling Like Death spell, if one even exists…but of course he wouldn’t know it. His master never taught him anything that would actually directly benefit him. For now, the best he can do is put all his energy into one step forward, another after that. Trudging down the crowded streets, avoiding colliding with other people, and finding his way back to the Mages Guild…with no directions.

_Gah! I don’t know where to go! What am I even doing!?_

The overwhelming urge to vomit starts bubbling up again. He stops for a moment to calm down, knowing _that_ would only make his already horrible situation so much worse. It's fine. Things will be fine. He may not know how to get to the Mages Guild, but surely someone around here will? Someone knowledgeable about businesses and guilds, like…a merchant!

Servyn didn’t have to look very far to find several of them strewn about the city’s many forks and street corners. Merchants in small stalls selling fish and sundries, merchants stood beside their pack guars loaded to the brim with all kinds of useless junk that may have some treasures buried within—but most of it was still junk, and weapons merchants situated in larger stalls accompanied by their own tents. One such store like this catches Servyn’s interest momentarily, for the Dunmer merchant in charge wields a daedric claymore before a Nord woman, babbling a mess of something or other that likely was a sales pitch.

Locking eyes with this merchant was a huge mistake, for the second the woman bids him a temporary farewell to browse the rest of his inventory (all of which were daedric weapons), the Dunmer notices Servyn and changes his demeanor to that of an overenthusiastic salesman.

“A warm welcome to you, sera! I see you’re interested in my fine armaments—come now, don’t be shy. Have a closer look!”

No, he really doesn’t want to have a closer look. But…this merchant _is_ talking to him—in a seemingly non-hostile manner to boot. That’s already better progress at asking for directions than he expected to get.

“What’s the matter, eh? Too burned out by that fetcher Ra’Virr’s supposed “genuine daedric weapons” that were nothing more than cheap iron rods with weak enchantments within them? You needn’t fear such trickery with my goods, for they’re the real deal—behold!”

Indeed, the merchant’s offerings were far from cheap iron rods—every weapon imaginable, from spears to katanas, staves and battleaxes, even what looked to be a dinner fork! All laid out neatly upon the stall, and all bearing the distinctive ebony material decorated with blood red crystals one could only find in daedric craftsmanship.

“Ah! But a fair warning, sera: authenticity doesn’t come cheap. Deep-world artifacts for deep pockets, as my slogan goes.”

Servyn looks down at himself. At his dirty prison rags which already boasts a few holes in them, equally filthy burlap breeches, and his bruised bare feet—because of course they’re bare! Shoes cost money, which he clearly doesn’t have. He’s the last mer in Nirn to have "deep pockets". He doesn’t even have _pockets_.

“I’m not looking for daedric weapons, a-and I most certainly can’t afford one,” Servyn peeps.

“Oh please, that’s what they all say." The merchant adopts an air of hubris. "Listen f'lah, you won’t find much luck pulling a fast one on House Hlaalu. Merchants see all, and tell all—amongst our constituents, or for the right price that is.”

_What is this mer talking about?_

The merchant clears his throat. “Ah, but much apologies, sera. We get many adventurers here in Balmora—wealthy adventurers just returning from this quest and that for this guild and that poor old woman, so on and so forth. Naturally, their occupation often leaves them rather worse for wear, and—ahem. If you can forgive my forwardness: you’re just about the filthiest and most banged up Dunmer I’ve ever seen! Return from a bit of spelunking lately? Smuggler den raiding? Cave exploration?”

Servyn blinks. Only once, as such deranged propositions have a knack for draining the will to live and function out of you. Unending patience was beaten into him over the years, sure—but _this_?

“I’m in _rags_! A-and even if I did have money, I wouldn’t spend it on those. They’re obviously Bound Weapons, and will return back to Oblivion as soon as the spell wears off!”

The merchant’s eyes widen. Other customers pause to witness the unusual sight of a disheveled pudgy Dunmer talk back to an esteemed Hlaalu saleseman.

“Pah. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just a scuttleheaded n’wah.”

A part of Servyn regrets his words for all the negative attention and curious eyes now trained on him, but for once this regret isn’t so overpowering as to make him back down. He was tired of letting people bigger and better dressed than him push him around.

“You’re right. But any novice conjurer knows Bound Weapons are magical constructs, not real and tangible objects.” With a graceful flick of the wrist, a six foot tall daedric warhammer materializes in a burst of golden light. Servyn wields it with ease as what was at first a few curious shoppers gradually cultivate into a small crowd.

“See? It may exist, and it may be a deadly weapon in the right hands, but the fact that even _I_ can hold this hammer without collapsing into a pile of broken bones proves it isn’t real. Just a few moments ago you offered that big sword to the Nord woman, and you held it with one hand. Even dremora struggle to grasp their own weapons, _because_ they’re so heavy.”

Without needing to reel back, Servyn tosses the warhammer into the air with very little effort. It disintegrates into light as it flies into the sky, for he banished it the moment it left his palms.

“There. It vanishes once the spell runs out, or if the caster performs a banishment. Yours will do the same.”

The merchant’s face glows with a hot bright red—very strange for a Dunmer, Servyn thought. He’d be lying if he denied the rush he felt from using his magical knowledge to put another high-horse arrogant mer in his place. Or from being able to remind himself that he _does_ know a thing or two about magic. Arvosi certainly did a good enough job at convincing him he was nothing more than a stupid apprentice, day after day after day. _Even though Arvosi was the one who taught me in the first place…_

“Ahem!” The merchant cries, desperately trying to mask his flustered demeanor. “Apologies truly _are_ in order, outlander. You’re not just some fourth-rate adventurer, nor the usual common street rat—that much is clear. I’ll admit: magic is a most intriguing subject I've _dabbled_ in on the side…but I'm really no good—not like you! Such a grand display of talent we've all witnessed! Do you perchance wield it for utility, for purpose?”

Servyn doesn’t respond. The merchant’s eyes dart back and forth hoping for the crowds to lose interest and leave. Some do, but not all.

“I use the ‘ol Fortify Strength technique here and there to help transport and display my merchandise across Vvardenfell and into the hands of my dear customers, as you are correct: daedric artifacts are quite weighty and difficult to handle. But enough about me; why don’t we share in trade secrets together, back in my tent? Ahem, sorry everyone, shop’s on break for a bit—one simply can’t refuse such intelligent company!”

The merchant approaches and brings his arm over Servyn’s back to guide him to the back of the tent. Once inside, the Dunmer’s face wrinkles in disgust as he wipes said arm with a piece of cloth, grumbling to himself about the “filthy n’wah.”

“You touched me first,” Servyn begins, but the merchant’s glare cuts him off.

“Listen here, s’wit—“ the Dunmer jabs, though has enough sense to take a breath and calm himself. “Ahem. I run a very lucrative business for a very powerful House. The puny magic of a puny outlander mean nothing to the might of my colleagues, and if you are truly as wise as you seem to think you are, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you understand? Can the n’wah understand me?”

_Oh, don't worry—I’m not wise. Il-Tei said so._

“You seem awfully hurt by my puny magic…”

The merchant’s eye twitches. “Fine, then. What do you want? Gold? Is that what you’re looking to get out of me?”

Servyn wilts a bit, struggling to keep up the faux confidence. People getting mad at him for telling the truth was all too reminiscent of his past life. Money was tempting, but it wasn’t truly what he wanted. He has a friend to return to. _Maybe…?_

“T-take me to the Mages Guild. I’ll…keep quiet about your weapons business if you take me to the Mages Guild.”

“There. See the hanging sign with the eye symbol on it? Here’s the Mage’s Guild. You understand that, don’t you?”

Servyn nods, though treats the merchant’s insults the same as all the others the Dunmer muttered to himself the entire journey through Balmora’s labyrinthine streets: without acknowledgement, without trouble.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, though it disappears with the wind created by the merchant turning around and stomping off without a goodbye. This was okay. Right now, a bigger beast stands before him: the task of returning to Il-Tei with the metaphoric tail between his legs to apologize for disappearing…assuming she or anyone else noticed to begin with. Or even cared. Either or would be ideal.

The door opens a crack. Servyn peeks through, hoping no-one was there waiting for him at the entrance. Leaned against the wall adjacent to the door is an anxiety-stricken Il-Tei, who leaps to greet him with a relieved “Servyn!”

 _Well, that hope didn’t last long_. He allows the Argonian to embrace him entirely, even lifting him slightly from the ground in the process. “Where has the sweet egg been? Is he hurt?”

 _All the time_. But Servyn knew what she meant, and shakes his head. Il-Tei grins, though it quickly morphs into a grimace—then to a forced neutral expression.

“This makes us happy! But ah, does Servyn remember that today is special? That he will pass the guild’s initiation test?”

Oh. Right. He wrestles between refusing because _he really doesn't want to do it_ and agreeing just to make Il-Tei happy, and as a result, no words come out. In the end, he simply nods. Il-Tei nods back.

“Good! Let us travel to the main hall, then. But…stay behind us. The others are…preparing! Yes, preparing the test, and it would not do for Servyn to get a glimpse at the preparations.”

Despite his increasing reluctance, Servyn follows. As they walk down the foyer hallway, he picks up on distant arguing, which quickly becomes recognizable as they progress closer to the source.

“—she’s posted at the door. As soon as that Dunmer returns…”

_What’s going on?_

“—We all knew that transient was bad news! With all due respect, officer—”

_Officer?_

“—Well, _most_ of us knew” cut in the unmistakable shrill voice of the Bosmer, “It was all Il-Tei’s idea. If anyone’s to be punished for this whole ordeal—“

“Ranis! Galbedir! Such unkind words you have to say about us, yet so little courage to say it to our face…” Il-Tei sounds more amused than hurt, and emerges into the main hall with confidence. For once Servyn is grateful for his short height, as being towered over means he can not only remain hidden, but also not see the no doubt hostile glares directed at him and Il-Tei.

“Well?” Ranis blurts. “Where is he?”

Il-Tei sighs, and steps aside. Oh, how he wished she hadn’t. Standing before him was the very nightmare he thought he’d narrowly escaped for good: Imperial soldiers. He recognized one of them, the tallest and most heavily armored of the group of four men as the captain from the swamp town’s Census and Excise office. He stands out from the rest not just by his grand attire, but by the sickeningly smug expression he wears compared to the stone cold seriousness the other soldiers put on.

“Greetings, mage. I see you’re doing well for yourself—moving up in the world, eh? Very good for you. But… _well_ , it truly _is_ a shame you missed out on our business in Seyda Neen…”

_Run. Escape. Turn invisible. Teleport. Do something._

The moment he begins an incantation with his right hand, Il-Tei grasps it and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“We will fight back if they try anything rash, but please, Servyn. Do not flee. Hear the Imperials out.”

 _Absolutely not!_ He attempts the incantation once more, but nothing happens. He can’t muster a single drop of magicka. He looks to Il-Tei, whose jaws are taught with guilt. She seems to be actively avoiding looking back at Servyn. _But why would she—_

Silence. She _Silenced_ him. She knew he’d try to escape, and trapped him. His blood turns cold. The walls start closing in. Since when was breathing so difficult?

“Nevertheless,” the captain drawls, “we’re willing to forgive your little stunt from before, should you agree to cooperate with us now.”

 _Don’t say that like I have a choice._ He wanted to verbalize even the tiniest drop of fire in his soul, to retort with something snarky to show he's not entirely a submissive punching bag to bark orders to. He wanted to...but no words came out.

“Eager for brevity, I see. Very well, I’ll cut right to the point: in exchange for your freedom, we’re giving you orders. A delivery job, of sorts. That sound easy enough?”

Servyn looks to the floor again. The captain’s face changes from smug to annoyed.

“You could do with a _bit_ of gratitude, Dunmer. Your release was personally sanctioned by Emperor Uriel VII himself. Gods know what his reasons were, but just as our loyalty is sworn to his and the Empire's will, so too must you bow to his decree.”

The captain produces a sealed package of documents and shows them to Servyn.

“Take this to a man named Caius Cosades—fortunately for you, he happens to live here in Balmora. Should you find him, he’ll tell you what to do next. Should you fail…well, that’s one less criminal erased from the face of Tamriel, no tears will shed for that. Do you understand?”

Servyn grimaces at the package as if they were one of Arvosi’s pet sep adders. Did a gaggle of soldiers really hunt him down just to ask him to deliver some papers to a strange man living in a strange city? There had to be more to this job than _that_.

Losing patience, the captain scoffs and turns to Il-Tei. “You’re the Dunmer’s companion, then? Make sure he doesn’t leave without them. Or don’t. Either way, I’ve done my job.”

For the most part, business as usual resumes quickly after the soldiers take their leave. Ranis stormed off to her private quarters nearly steaming like a dwemer centurion, a Breton woman oversees the transportation altar bidding greetings and farewells to incoming and outcoming guild members, and Ajira mixes potions nearby, though she anxiously glances towards Servyn and Il-Tei, who are the only two who haven’t moved since the soldiers left. Only one makes eye contact with the other.

“Servyn…” Il-Tei starts, though he only turns away. She extends her claw and envelops him in a veil of white light. He jumps at said light, though not in pain—in fact, he feels an invisible weight lifted from his shoulders.

“We’ve Dispelled your Silence. It is no more. Please, sit with Il-Tei.”

Maybe it’s because no matter how hard he tries, he still can’t kick the long-instilled habit of obeying orders. Or because Il-Tei pockets the package without attempting to force him to take it. Either or was apparently enough justification in his stupid brain to mindlessly follow her into the library rather than immediately teleport away and never turn back. They sit next to eachother on a sofa facing a small end table surrounded by books. Il-Tei doesn’t speak right away—she allows her friend some moments to be angry with her.

Servyn’s “anger” wasn’t as much a burning hatred as it was stone cold betrayal. Betrayal for…being thrown to the wolves by malicious intent? No, she clearly didn’t _want_ to surrender him to the Imperials. _But she still did. I can’t trust her._

“So,” Il-Tei tries, “a mysterious man named Caius Cosades… So strange, the men-folk are! They say “meet with this person Servyn clearly does not know”, yet they don’t tell him one lick about who this person is, when clearly the men-folk know, otherwise they wouldn’t bother to order him to deliver papers to them!”

No response. Eyes to the floor, as usual. Il-Tei doesn’t object.

“Ha. ‘Ol Caius, huh?”

Il-Tei perks up at the source of the unexpected voice: a tall Orc woman reading a book on necromancy in the sofa next to theirs. This Orc is Sharn gra-Muzgob, the guild’s healer. She’s usually the prickly sort who doesn’t speak often, though that in itself makes her a thousand times better company than Ranis or Galbedir. They’re on good terms with one another.

“Sharn! Is she familiar with this Caius Cosades? Would she be able to help us find him?”

The Orc turns a page in her book, looking quite unenthused.

“Would I be able to? Sure. Do I want to? No. But…” she sighs, closing the book and placing it on the table. “Anything that involves Caius is not to be taken lightly. Nor can a potential favor from Caius be taken lightly, either.” She smirks at that last bit.

“Well! This is good! Sharn will take Servyn to this Caius! That takes care of that!”

_I, once again, did not agree to this._

“Oh! But first…” Il-Tei examines Servyn for a bit. “Yes, we should have something for him, somewhere… Something simple, yet stunning—just like Servyn!”

Sharn raises an eyebrow. Il-Tei is more than eager to explain her joy to both of them.

“New clothes! He has suffered long enough in dirty rags that make the men and mer look down at him with undue prejudice. Servyn must look his finest, if he is to discuss important matters with this important man named Caius Cosades!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Tei. I’m sure Caius would enjoy someone else finally dressing on the same level of his own fashion sense.”

Il-Tei tuts. “Perhaps Sharn is right, for she knows this Caius, and we do not. But he will have to deal with it, for we wish for Servyn to have nice clothes.”

Servyn still refuses to look at her. The cheeky smile falls into a sad frown. She leaves the main hall without a word, leaving Servyn to curl up on the library sofa as the Orc returns to her book. The other mages go about their business: a lecture about detecting enchantments rings (though muffled) from one room over (the lecturer is misinformed—you can absolutely see enchantments outside of Mundus with a powerful enough spell), a strong aroma of boiled marshmerrow and sweetpulp emanates from the alchemy lab (they're making healing potions, but they're not very strong) and scrollmakers scribble away at miles of parchment which spill over their desks so far that even he can make out the lettering (their penmanship is off). He stops himself from observing any more. _I'm not better than these mages. They're older..wiser._

Il-Tei returns with a bundled robe and a tray of tea and Colovian sugar biscuits.

“Poor Servyn woke up with a terrible bellyache this morning, did he not?”

Terrible bellyache is an understatement. But she didn’t have to know that.

“This is ginger tea, imported from Elsweyr. Ajira used to make it for her siblings back home—poor little kittens whose tummies swell up into egg shapes after drinking too much milk. It reminded us of Servyn…”

He still won’t look at her.

“In any case, it will feel better after a few sips. It is a bit bitter, so she has brought sugary treats to soothe the tongue. Servyn enjoys sweet things, yes?”

He does. He decides he’ll most certainly eat the biscuits, but he’s not ready to look Il-Tei in the eyes again. He surprises himself when he even drinks a bit of the tea, which in turn surprises him back by actually calming the lingering nausea in his body despite the fact that the tea itself tastes awful.

“There’s something else. Look!”

Il-Tei unfolds the clothes—a maroon robe coupled with a short-sleeved dark turquoise coat, bright red knitted scarf, fine leather belt sporting a perfectly smooth ruby at its core, and brown rawhide satchel. The satchel doesn’t lay flat, as if something’s inside of it. Something he can tell is the exact shape of that package of documents. “We've left a pair of shoes for him in the basement washing room for him to wear after he's changed. Servyn will look very nice in these garments, will he not say?”

Servyn stares at the clothes for a moment, then reaches for another biscuit to nibble on.

“Does he like them? We apologize, for neither we nor Aji have many clothes that would fit him properly. Nor any men’s clothing, for that matter…”

“It’s okay,” Servyn interrupts, looking Il-Tei in the eyes. “I like them.” As much as he’s still unsure whether or not to trust her, he hates seeing her look sad. Besides, he really doesn’t mind the fact that they’re women’s clothes. The robes are quite nice, actually.

Il-Tei beams. “Once he is clean and dressed, Servyn will speak to Sharn gra-Muzgob, yes?”

Well, throw that onto the rapidly growing pile of requests he has no choice but to agree to. Though at the very least, it did feel good to finally clean the days-old dirt and grime from his body and comb his disaster of tangled hair into a slightly less disheveled mess. Being able to toss the itchy prison rags was nice too. The robes fit rather firmly around his chunky abdomen, though he still opted to clasp the belt (with some effort) around his waist, not wanting Il-Tei’s gift to go to waste. It really _was_ meant to be a women's belt. That's what he tells himself to excuse its tight fit.

Sharn gra-Muzgob waits for him in the first floor hallway right at the foot of the stairs. Her demeanor is…indifferent, to put it charitably.

“Come. I’ll take you to Caius now.”

He nods. Following the Orc through the seemingly never-ending snaking roads of Balmora proves to be just as exhausting as the trouble its residents have already given him in the short time he’s been here. This time, he’s taken to the residential half of the city (apparently the half he'd been in whole time belonged exclusively to merchants), across a large stone bridge standing tall above a wide river. Many small crowds disperse themselves about the water below, either washing their clothes and kitchenware, casually bathing, or…not so casually bathing. Servyn considers asking the Orc if that’s even allowed, though her stern face tells him she may not be interested in answering questions.

After some time, she stops in front of a small stone…home? Calling it that really overexaggerates what barely qualifies as a tiny apartment. They travelled well past the middle-class districts through quite a bit of dubious alleyways to finally stop at a cramped filthy corner street that looks as if it’s seen more company from racer droppings than actual people.

“Right then. Good luck.” Sharn gra-Muzgob turns around to leave.

“W-wait!” he cries, but the Orc glares back.

“Any business involving Caius is usually serious—and secretive, more than anything. Not for the likes of common folk such as the Guild. You’re on your own.”

 _What makes you think I’m important enough!?_ Nevertheless, he knew better than to argue with an Orc, and lets her disappear through the foggy streets without another word. He faces the stone home once more. By no means was it a spectacular or large abode, yet somehow its presence felt overwhelming and uninviting.

_No turning back. The Imperials know where you are now._

Servyn meekly knocks at the door once. After five minutes of restless silence, he knocks again with greater force, and the door creaks open slightly (was the door unlocked this whole time!?) Another 5 minutes of no response confirms that indeed, the door did not open because somebody was actually waiting for him behind it, and he may as well enter on his own accord. The first thing that hits him like a rampaging kagouti is the smell. It reeks heavily of skooma smoke—like the rest of the city, except thicker and more pungent. This smog obscures most of the room (which itself wasn’t very big) and nearly conceals what looks to be the vague shape of a man hunched over a large hookah.

“E-erm, greetings…muthsera?”

The man twitches into life and locks eyes with Servyn (at least, he _thinks_ the man is staring at him. He can’t quite tell through the smoke.)

“Are you Caius Cosades?”

The figure slowly gets up in a coughing fit and approaches. Emerging from the fog and standing tall before him is a middle aged well-built Imperial. Who isn’t wearing a shirt.

“Hm? Yes? I’m Caius Cosades. To what do I owe the company of…?”

Servyn digs though his satchel and produces the documents. Caius takes them, returning to his pipe to suckle its vapor as he reads. Should he introduce himself? Ask the shirtless Imperial to introduce _himself_? Beg for permission to open a window because _gods this smoke could suffocate a mer?_

He decides on the latter, but it comes out as nothing more than a raspy cough. The Imperial’s brow wrinkles, but he doesn’t shift his gaze from the documents.

“No. Take a seat at the table if you must. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Servyn, for the umpteenth time, begrudgingly obeys.


	7. Dream

Ten minutes. It’s been _ten minutes_. Ten slow, agonizing minutes that weren’t even quiet, for the shirtless Imperial broke it every now and then to cough like a diseased guar. It would worry Servyn a lot more, had he not been focused on his own breathing (or lack thereof). He’s no stranger to secondhand smoking his fair share of skooma given how often Arvosi spoiled himself to the drug, but at least back then the house was spacious enough to not completely clog up with smog that did not at all taste as sweet to those inhaling its remnants as it did to the primary smoker (at least, probably not. If it at all tasted the same, then Servyn couldn’t imagine why anyone bothers to consume the stuff, let alone get addicted to it.)

Not for the first time, he relies on magic to save his life. The last place he ever expected to cast a Waterbreathing spell was in a cramped apartment building that definitely was not underwater, but it’s surprisingly effective in not drowning in all the smoke. Caius seemed completely unaffected, as if the man survives in skooma like a fish survives in water, or like normal people survive in normal air.

“Mm. Apologies, Dunmer. Can’t open a window, otherwise the rest of the neighborhood would know I have the good stuff. That won’t do! I am but a humble old man _recovering_ from a skooma addiction, not a humble old man _satisfying_ a skooma addiction. You understand; you’re smart.”

There is too much wrong with what the Imperial just said to even begin to refute any of it. Servyn simply nods. Caius nods back and grows serious, though most shocking of all, he sets his pipe aside for a moment.

“In any case, you say you found me through Sharn gra-Muzgob? I trust she didn’t spill any secrets regarding who I am or my profession?”

Servyn shakes his head. Caius relaxes and takes up the skooma again. He inhales a long, drawn out helping of smoke. “Pity, that. Could’ve saved me the time and trouble of explaining it myself. Though I suppose that’s for the best.”

He exhales the smoke, reveling in its sweet ecstasy.

“First, before I tell you anything: details pertaining to this conversation, as well as future conversations, are to remain secret.”

_Future conversations!? I have to come back here again!?_

“You’ll need accomplices, and accomplices require purpose. You may tell them you work for an important man, and that important man wants you to investigate this curiosity in that city or that rumor in that town if they _need_ to know, but keeping as much to yourself as you can is ideal.”

 _This is assuming I have a good reason to trust you over Il-Tei_. Though given her stunt with the soldiers, maybe he really _could_ trust this sugar-addled Imperial more than her.

“Before I am to officially promote you, do you accept and agree to these terms, Dunmer?”

Servyn nods his head a moment too late, before realizing what the man actually said. Promotion for what?

“Very well, then. You’re now a Novice in the Blades. Congratulations.”

 _The what_?

“You are to report to me, your superior, for any and all orders regarding your new standing—in fact, you will report for orders right now. Since you came here with Sharn, am I correct in assuming you’ve already established a cover life with the local Mages Guild?”

_I don’t think being scooped up by a delusional overly-nice lizard counts as being part of the Mages Guild._

“That’s a good first step. You’ll need some kind of identity in Vvardenfell for this line of work, as most of the locals here won’t take kindly to an Imperial spy—their words, not ours. We may act as the Emperor’s eyes and ears, but our interests benefit more than just the Empire. You’ll understand that, in due time.”

Wait wait wait. Superiors? Orders? Secret identities? Serving the _Empire_!? Just who does this man think Servyn is? Some mindless servant who’s all too willing to obey orders from whoever decrees themselves as his master?

_Yes. That is what you are. That’s what you’ve always been, and everyone can see it._

Caius surprises him a second time by giving him a look of sympathy. It seemed like he really meant it too—but it was insincere. Refusing to partake in Empire schemes wasn’t an option. This shows in Caius’s face, past whatever veil of compassion he tries to put on in a futile attempt to reassure him that the job of “Imperial spy” isn't as bad as he absolutely knew it would be.

“In any case,” Caius interjects, changing his demeanor back to stone cold seriousness, “are you ready to hear your true orders, Novice?”

“Yes,” he replies, with the hopeless defeat of a mer forever shackled to obedience.

“Ald-ruhn! This Caius tells Servyn he must travel to Ald-ruhn?”

The last thing Servyn wanted to do was answer questions—not because Caius told him not to, but because he was _tired_. Getting back to the Mages Guild all the way from the other side of the city was a nightmare on its own, but worst of all, it was a _long_ nightmare. Fortunately, whether Il-Tei knew it or not, getting him to talk was easy with an offering of a guar-ham and hackle-lo sandwich.

“And a big city named Vivec,” Servyn drawls before tearing into a sandwich. “Somethif ab’t…a culf.”

Il-Tei’s jaws wrinkle in disgust at the mention of Vivec. Cult investigation on top of Il-Tei clearly disliking the place told Servyn everything he needed to know about this particular job. As with most things thrust upon him, he knows he doesn’t have a choice in whether or not to do what he’s told—but he has the right to hate it every step of the way. That at least is _some_ illusion of choice, right?

“Aye…but cults? This man wishes for him to gain information on a cult?”

“Too culfs!”

A “Nerevarine cult” and a “Sixth House cult”. Caius was very clear about keeping the names and overviews of them secretive. From what he described, both worship a god who preaches about driving the Empire and outlanders out of Vvardenfell. As someone who also hates the Empire and is an outlander who wishes to leave this cursed place for good, Servyn can’t help but sympathize with both of them. Why even wait for a god to make this happen? He’ll gladly contribute to their vision and hop on the first ship out of here the first chance he gets!

“What of his mission in Ald-ruhn? For what reason would Caius send poor Servyn so far away, to such a harsh place?”

Servyn swallows, ignoring the “harsh” part of her question, thinking she must be kidding. Is there any part of Vvardenfell that _isn’t_ harsh?

“I don’t know. He wants me to meet a merchant who knows something about another group related to one of the cults. Has…Hass-sour… Zain-soo…?”

Servyn gives up trying to pronounce the name in favor of indulging in another mouthful of the sandwich Il-Tei made him for dinner—the third one now. One might think he’d learned his lesson about over-eating that very morning, but it was hard to resist when food was offered to him. For better or worse, living for years under a wealthy mage who didn’t care what he did so long as he obeyed orders resulted in a persistent habit of dealing with stress by turning to the one thing that was in abundance _and_ made him feel better. This is okay, he tells himself. Besides! He skipped lunch due to being stuck with Caius all day, filling his head with orders that didn’t make any sense—it was only fair to spend the evening filling his stomach with food that _did_ make sense.

Making quick work of the last few bites, Servyn looks to Il-Tei expectantly. His ears droop when she frowns and shakes her head.

“No more—Servyn will get sick again.”

“Great. Can we kick him out now?”

Ranis, Galbedir, and the Breton in charge of the teleportation portal sit on the other side of the dining table. Ranis wears a scowl so deep it's already created permanent frown marks in her face. She keeps quiet if only to retain the dignity expected of her as a Guildmaster. The Breton woman seems mildly annoyed, though nothing more. Galbedir—the one who just spoke, neither has the obligation nor desire to hold her tongue.

“Galbedir!” cries Ajira, who sat with her wife and was all too willing to stay silent so long as Il-Tei and her friend was left alone. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen. “This one clearly listened to the Dunmer’s story. He must stay here, for the Imperial man insists he establish a life outside of “outlander”. Is Galbedir brave enough to stand in the way of an important man’s orders?”

“According to who, huh?” Galbedir sneers with an upturn of her nose to look down on—well. A Bosmer isn’t usually capable of looking down on anyone, though the one person she could look down on was Servyn. _Of course._

“Sharn knows,” Il-Tei adds. “This Caius _is_ important, is he not?”

“Yeah.” Sharn calls from the nearby alchemy lab.

“Well…how!? How is he important? Why should we do what he says, huh? Tell us!”

“No.”

Now Galbedir appears as if she’s steaming. The Breton looks genuinely concerned of the possibility she may burst into flames, and if Servyn were being honest, he worried for the same reason. A part of him wanted to leave, to apologize to these mages who really didn’t ask to be burdened with taking in a disgusting useless Dunmer like him. Perhaps one could even add “selfish” to that winning list of attributes, because another part of him _really_ didn’t want to return to the streets a broke and penniless mer once again, with no other choice but to report back to Caius and tell him that he actually wasn’t with the Mages Guild and is in fact an abject failure in every conceivable way; nothing more than a worthless prisoner the Empire dumped on him to throw orders at for…what?

“You’re missing the point, Tei.” Ranis finally speaks, in a calm and collected voice surprisingly. “The Mages Guild recruits new members based on merit—not based on what some supposed “important man” says. If that transient is to muck around and take up one of our precious beds while eating all of our food like the vermin crawling around the cellar, then he better at least cast spells as competently as a cave rat.”

“Ah! The initiation test, of course!” Il-Tei, as always, is much more enthusiastic about showing off Servyn’s magical capabilities than he is. “Servyn would be happy to—aye! Do not wear the look of one who feels like a burden, Servyn. It will show us something grand, yes?”

_What’s that supposed to mean? Cast the strongest Tinur’s Hoptoad possible and jump straight into the big volcano, out of sight and out of mind? Is that what they want?_

Servyn yawns heavily. Certainly, he would be up for doing that _tomorrow_ …but he’d much rather collapse into bed and forget about the long day, the long week…the long everything! Il-Tei looks sympathetically towards him.

“Let me guess—tomorrow? You want us to reschedule this oh-so-important test for your oh-so-important friend, as if we don’t have our own lives and schedules to tend to?” The Guildmaster’s calm demeanor falters ever more slightly.

“Pish…that was not _our_ fault, that the Imperials came in and interrupted today’s—“

“ _Not your fault_? For bringing a criminal here in the first place!?”

“ _Ex_ criminal. The Imperials released him right in front of our eyes.”

“So what! That transient could’ve killed a man for all we know, and you’re willing to forgive his crimes just because the Empire said so?”

The ruby. The clannfear. The dead body. The guts, the blood—so much blood, strewn right before him back in that classroom. If he were fast enough, he could’ve stopped it. He _should’ve_ stopped it. Maybe it really was his fault. Maybe the Imperials were right to arrest him. Maybe the Guildmaster was right to not want him here.

Servyn stands up from his seat abruptly, interrupting both Ranis and Il-Tei by accidentally knocking a glass cup over in the process. He stands motionless, wide eyed blushing, be it over embarrassment for knocking over the glass or as a preliminary sign his head is about to explode. _The latter. Definitely the latter._

“Is…Servyn alright?” Il-Tei asks.

Darting his gaze everywhere but the many pairs of eyes now focused on to him, he pipes up.

“I…I have to go!”

“By all means, don’t let us stop you!” For the first time all day, Ranis speaks with joy in her tongue.

“Er…if this one means the bathing room, then it is still down in the basement,” Ajira adds.

_I have to go. I have to go. I have to go._

“I’m going!”

_One foot forward, another foot after that. Next foot forward, another—_

“Servyn!” Il-Tei follows behind him, not yet attempting to obstruct him. “What’s the matter? If it wishes to take the test tomorrow, it is no trouble at all. The bedroom is this way.”

_It’s alright—no, it’s not alright. I’ll report back to Caius tomorrow—no, not tomorrow! Do it now, you useless good for nothing—_

“Servyn?” A claw clutches his shoulder. Before thinking with common sense, he thinks with instinct. A lightning shield bursts around him, exploding in excess bolts crackling against the hallway’s walls. The claw holds on, and turning around to face his “attacker” immediately brings him back to reality at the sight of his friend wincing in pain as lightning surges through her scales and singes the tips of her feathers. Servyn tries to jolt away, knowing his shock-encased body was the culprit, but her grip pulls him forward into her chest—into a desperate embrace.

“Servyn must not fight. He must not blame himself for causing trouble.”

The two stand in place without a word, the only noise echoing in the hallway being rhythmic crackling. The lightning shield subsides gradually, in tune with the transition of Servyn’s chaotic panicking breathing to a light, raspy sobbing. Throughout it all, Il-Tei strokes a claw through his hair and hums a Saxhleel lullaby.

“Illy? Where has—“ The pitter patter of paws approaches slowly, but soon erupts into frantic steps at the gasp of their owner. “Aiy! She is hurt! What has happened here?”

Ajira begins the incantation of a healing spell. Il-Tei allows her to bathe them in restorative light, though it does little to help the pain. Aji truly was a better alchemist than a healer, but that’s okay. No amount of lightning burns would convince her to let go.

“All is well, Aji. We are fine.”

Ajira circles around Il-Tei to find Servyn buried within, twitching with every hushed weep. He must’ve hurt her, and yet…Ajira couldn’t muster a spark of fire in her heart to be angry with him. The moment she and her wife lock eyes with eachother, she knew they both saw the same thing.

“Oh, this one’s feathers! So many of them charred on the floor…”

Il-Tei remains calm.

“We quite like the new hair styling. It is…“artistic”, yes?”

Ajira chuckles, shaking her head and releasing the tension from her shoulders at the smile Il-Tei still manages despite the pain she was in.

“Silly Illy…if she could only see herself right now!”

“Mm. Does she look terrifying? Prickly and wild like a stem of chokeweed?”

“No! No…” Ajira joins the embrace and wraps her paws around both of them. “She looks beautiful.”

He wanted to apologize. To point to what just happened as evidence for why he shouldn’t be here, that it’d be better for everyone if he just disappeared. The worst part of it all is he knows Il-Tei would be unhappy with that, even though it was true. Maybe if she knew about what happened in the University, she’d understand—yet still no words came out. Nothing came out when Il-Tei finally stood up and asked him to follow her into the bedroom, and nothing came out again when she now wishes him a good night and tells him everything will be okay.

No. What he really needs to say is “Thank you”. He had to try—he _wanted_ to try, but all he could muster was another hug before she left the bedside. Il-Tei hums with contentment, hearing his unspoken words and replying with “You deserve this and the sweet fruits of a world’s compassion” by ruffling the top of his head and guiding him back to bed to tuck him in.

He was all too eager to fall asleep as soon as possible, once the door clicks closed and the magic lights flick off—the quicker tomorrow comes, the quicker he can see Il-Tei again and thank her properly for everything she’s done. Regardless of whether the guild gives him another chance to take a test to stay for good or if he really will have to say goodbye and endure the streets again, he at least wants to thank her. He's grateful for already being exhausted, as drifting off into a heavy slumber was (for once) easier than staring at the wall while a million different thoughts crowd his head.

_Sweet nothingness…_

_Sweet darkness...Sweet…red?_

Indeed, it was no longer dark, as Servyn was no longer unconscious. This world is red. A deep blood red.

This predicament of awaking into a strange indescribably realm felt…all too familiar. It had to be another dream, but would it be like the last? Would another god try to whisper sweet nothings into his mind about grand meanings that would ultimately be meaningless to him? Whisper tall tales about being some special chosen one who must do their bidding, all the while refusing to tell him what that bidding actually is? Whisper…whisper…

There truly _was_ quite a bit of whispering here. Whisperings of something he couldn’t make out, from voices he couldn’t find owners for. There was nothing but red. Red, and what looked like tiny little stars flowing in wisps throughout this sea of blood, but were actually sparks and ash…from fire? He couldn’t see any fire. He couldn’t see anything.

“…Ner…y…”

Servyn whips around, startled by what sounded like comprehensible speech. Where was this god? Was it the one from before? He runs towards the direction he thinks the whisper came from, ready to confront whatever figment of beauty—or manifestation of horrors awaits him to tell it to go away, to release him from this dream and let him wake up.

“…iend…ar…”

The whispers grow louder and more frequent, as if a thousand different people vie for his attention at once. He wasn’t sure if he could call them whispers, for their voices flood every nook and cranny of air in this seemingly endless expanse of _red_.

“…var…Moon…ome…closer…”

A vague shape of a figure appears on the horizon. It’s nothing more than a speck among a crimson universe. _That’s it_.

“…ood…friend…mis…ou…”

He runs. Runs as fast as his legs can carry him without stopping, as fatigue is a thing of imagination he wishes to not exist in this dream, and so it doesn’t. As he sprints closer to the figure, the void transforms into a more tangible place: the ground is rocky, the air is hot, and other figures begin to materialize, first as cloudy shapes, then into…not people, but corpses. _Don’t worry about them. Keep moving forward_.

“…revar…Nerevar…!”

_There. They’re right there. I’ll—_

The figure steps aside without turning around to meet him in the eyes—suddenly the rocky ground morphs into a rocky cliff overhanging an ocean of lava. Servyn pales, stopping just in time to only graze the edge of the pitfall and upset a few stones to fall below— _far_ below. He didn’t want to think about how far such a drop into fiery death would be, so he looks up.

The world is entirely different now, in that it was no longer a wasteland of red, but a clearly defined worldscape of mountainous stone and raging fire surrounding him on all sides. This, however, only commanded an ounce of his attention, for this realm’s centerpiece, its towering crowning jewel imposes before him: a humongous brass colossus resembling some parts man, other parts skeleton, and all parts machine.

“Through toil and terror you come before me, Nerevar.”

Servyn startles, turning his head towards the figure who stands next time, only to meet the gaze of something he wasn’t quite sure was man or mer. It wears a golden ornate mask that depicts what looks like a face melded into a sun—except this face has three glowing red eyes.

“Mm. Pity you’ve chosen quite an…unfortunate form for this new life. A new…change, yes. Our world has changed too, dear Nerevar. Not for the better.”

The figure wraps a hand—a long-clawed blood-stained terrifying hand around Servyn’s shoulder as if they were close friends, and guides him to turn around, to face two rows of corpse-people who, as expected, are as lively as corpses tend to be—yet they still whisper. They all whisper their sinister melodies of incomprehensible speech, whisper their commands, their pleas, their curses.

He wants to scream. Scream at the figure to let him go, scream at the corpses to be quiet, and most of all scream at the world to disappear and let him awaken from this terror. Despite before where he had desire but no drive to speak, this time he has both. He cries, shouts, bellows to everyone, he feels his lips part and his chest burst—but nothing comes out. _They_ can speak, he can hear them, but no matter how hard he tries to scream, even to a point where he exhausts every last breath from his body, his words are silent.

He can’t breathe. They laugh, they joke (at him?) they celebrate in merry camaraderie (Corpses! Celebrating!) while he can’t breathe, _he’s dying, why doesn’t anyone see that?_ His vision turns darker, blacker, until all he can see are three glowing red orbs. _I’m dying, I’m dying. I can’t call for help, and I’m dying!_

Just as quickly as complete darkness envelopes him, complete light—blue light that resembles those of the magic lamps adorning the guild walls flood his vision in an instant, painfully blinding flash. There are voices—lots of them, most sounding angry, but recognizable.

“That’s _IT!_ That imbecile is sick. Sick in the head, sick in the soul—I don’t care. Just get him out of here. Now!”

“Ranis, do not—“

“You want to deal with this screaming all night long? Is that it? Because I don’t, and neither do the rest of us!”

“Let us get to him—“

“Yeah, fine. Do it. Get to him, and throw him out.”

Ajira stands at the doorway, at the front of the group crowding behind. Il-Tei peeks over her partner’s shoulder, at the writhing mess of limbs on the floor tangled within blankets and knocked over pillows and broken glass cups. Ajira hesitates to let her through; her eyes taught with fear that, even if unintentionally, the Dunmer will hurt her again. Il-Tei pecks her on the cheek, a sign to trust everything will be okay—she knew her friend was in more danger of hurting himself than anyone else, and this is confirmed the moment she draws near to Servyn, and his mindless thrashing turns into clutching on for dear life as she she wraps her claws around him.

The next morning when Servyn properly wakes up in a completely different bed within a completely different Mages Guild, he wonders which parts of last night were dreams, and which were reality. He remembers Il-Tei near-cradling him onto a summoning pedestal while a Breton woman mumbles teleportation incantations. He remembers a crowd of unknown faces staring at him as if he were a madman, calling for an “Edwinna”…or was it an “Elbert”? They both sounded important. But most of all, he remembers the court of corpses and their leader. How their three eyes, even hidden behind the mask, bore into him, how he could feel them begging him to _do_ something, to _say_ something—as if they knew eachother. Some parts of last night were real, some were dream, but all of it felt like one big nightmare. It still does.

He’s awake, yet he still feels asleep.


	8. Ashlander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, sorry for the long pause between uploading this chapter! Just wanted to step in and say that like the main quest, some minor liberties are taken with Julan's quest (in game you find him right outside Ghostgate, but here he's a ways down the road away from it.) I only plan to make small changes like this, and do so as little as possible, though!

As of the two slow, silent hours since he woke up, Servyn has accomplished little more than shifting between lying against his right side to his left side, then back again, and remembering to breathe every once in a while.

There’s been no knocking at the door, nor any call from the hallway outside acknowledging his existence. He couldn’t decide whether it was good no authority figure has tried to kick him out or order him to do menial tasks, or depressing that it seems nobody here cared about him enough to even bother coming in to tell him he’s a worthless muck pile or even ask him why he was here…or maybe even invite him to come out and join them for morning breakfast…

_Stop that! You’re going soft, wanting kindness out of others just because Il-Tei gave you a taste of it. You’re back in reality; act like it._

It's fine—he wasn’t hungry anyway. Although…he did feel something upon finally rising from the slightly drool-stained pillow (oops) sitting cross-legged on the bed wrapped within a blanket cocoon, peeking out just enough to look around the small underwhelming bedroom with nothing more than a nightstand and an empty desk to keep him company.

_Bored._

It’s strange to feel _bored_ —so strange to Servyn that in the moment he didn’t know how to describe this uncomfortable feeling that certainly wasn’t pain, nor was it contentment. He’s never _not_ been in some dire situation, or had the looming threat of new misery torturing his mind every waking hour of his consciousness…but now, in this tiny bedroom, he simply exists with nothing to do, no order to carry out, no expectations. This doesn’t seem okay. Is this okay? He almost wished somebody would come in and give him trouble, if only to return to some feeling of normalcy.

As if a god truly _was_ watching and decided to answer his wishes, a few soft knocks and a gentle, familiar “Is Servyn awake?” calls from outside the door.

“Y-yes?”

Il-Tei is far from trouble, but he was by no means disappointed by her arrival (plus the uncomfortable feeling was gone.) She enters the room wearing two satchels—one of which is her own, and the other Servyn recognizes as the one she gave him with his clothes. She sets it down on the nightstand.

“He is awake! This is good.”

_Is it though?_

Servyn falls back into the pillow, staring upwards.

“We spoke with the other mages the previous night. He is not expected to perform tasks—yet. But we know he can perform well, so this will be no problem when the time comes!”

“Mm.”

It’s a sad, wistful acknowledgement, though it wasn’t so much her words or the circumstances she speaks of that currently hold his attention. Servyn’s gaze points to the ceiling, lost in another world.

“What does he think about right now, eh?”

Being suddenly reminded he’s not alone, he turns his attention to his friend.

“In Cyrodiil, they put their soup in bowls made of bread…first you eat the soup, and then the bowl. That’s what you do when you want _two_ lunches…”

“Oh? Is Servyn from Cyrodiil?”

Servyn blushes profusely, realizing his mistake. “Er! I was just thinking about—I don’t know, it must be hours past breakfast, and…” He gives up to burrow under his blankets, hoping Il-Tei doesn’t press him for more personal questions. He wasn’t ready to tell her about his life in Cyrodiil, not yet.

“Is Servyn alright? What does he hide from, in this little room?”

She can’t see it underneath the blankets, but he curls up tighter around himself.

“Ah, of course. He is hungry, and wishes to indulge in many lunch bowls?”

“I don’t _know_ what I think!” Servyn cries, muffled from within the sheets. After some moments of silence, guilt over snapping at his friend takes over, and he tries again. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to follow Caius’s orders, a-and I don’t want to do Mages Guild things! But now what? Am I to ask _myself_ what to do? That’s bad—I know that’s bad because _I’m_ me! And I know me very—“

While Servyn had been ranting, Il-Tei was in the process unfurling him from the blanket cocoon. Only when she finally frees him of this shell and looks him in the eyes with a stern yet compassionate gaze only a mother could give that he falls silent, no longer bewitched by anxiety speaking for him.

“Servyn is lost. This is understandable—Vvardenfell is a most unusual land. But ah, may he turn around for us?”

He obliges, not understanding why but trusting she has a reason to ask this of him. Il-Tei digs through her belongings and produce a comb, proceeding to run it through Servyn’s tangled hair.

“Er—“

“Shhh, the bed has not been kind to his lovely mane. Much tossing and turning last night, he would say?”

Servyn doesn’t reply, pulling his legs close together and curling in on them. Even if it was just a dream, it felt too real to be just a normal every day nightmare—but Il-Tei would think him crazy if he said that. _As if she doesn’t already think you’re crazy…_

For her part, she allows him to stay silent, to choose what he wants to say (or don’t say). He knows she wants to talk to him, to help him. Only for her sake, he pipes up.

“I wanted to stay in Balmora. I didn’t… _like_ it there, but I’ve at least _seen_ quite a bit of it, and you’re there, and your partner, she seems nice too, and—ow, ow!”

“So sorry!” Il-Tei cries upon finally dislodging the brush from a particularly tangled clump of hair. “Please, continue. We will be gentler.”

“I just don’t want to be _here_! Things looked like it could’ve settled down in Balmora, but now I’m—well, I don’t know _where_ this is!”

“He is caught in a cruel raging river,” Il-Tei drawls, finishing up another lock of hair—gently, as she promised. “But…we do not protest the ever-flowing tides of life. She may toss and sway in wild chaos, consuming everything caught in her maw one day, and tomorrow choose to lay dormant, welcoming to young hatchlings who so love to splash and play, and catch the biggest, brightest fish…”

Il-Tei pauses to reorient herself from dwelling on memories. A few moments and a sad sigh later, she speaks once again. “Servyn is here, in Ald-ruhn, city of ash and sword-clashing. Perhaps he did not choose to arrive at this river—but ah! A river has many currents, no? Which current will he choose to swim into?”

Servyn ponders whether or not he’d prefer one that leads to a lake full of slaughterfish or one that just dumps him into the deep, dark abyss of a desolate ocean. Those were his only two options, right?

Il-Tei finishes combing, seeming proud with her work. “Swimming is hard—much like brushing messy hair! He will run into nasty tangles that refuse to budge, and take many, many strokes to wrestle through. But ah! Once he overcomes the difficult knots, when he survives the harsh torrents—”

She raises both claws to form an incantation of pinkish-white light, producing a shining reflective surface—a Reflect spell. Though it serves none of the intended purposes a Reflect spell is typically cast for, it does serve her specific purpose of acting as a mirror.

“—will he find his true beauty.”

Indeed, Servyn’s hair is near perfectly smooth. Still quite wavy with a few stray strands that refused to stay down, but certainly much nicer than he’d ever seen it (not that he looked at himself very often, for it was usually a sore sight to see). But this time…he doesn’t _entirely_ feel that way about the mer staring back at him.

Il-Tei dispels the reflection with a sad smile. “Unfortunately, he must choose a river without us. Il-Tei is bound to the Balmora guild, and she must return to attend to her duties. Servyn promises us he will try, yes? He will kick his legs a bit and swim?”

_More like float face down in the water as a dead body..._

“Can’t I come back with you? Um…maybe take that test, and—“

Il-Tei shakes her head. “Ranis will be upset. This, and only those of a high enough rank may request the use of teleportation between guilds. Edwinna—the Ald-ruhn guild’s master, is kind to let Servyn stay here despite not being an official member yet—we must not give her reasons to rescind this kindness.”

She’s right, but he didn’t like it. Il-Tei knows this, and tries to endure with a smile for her friend.

“All is not sad. _We_ are able to use the guild’s teleportation, and use it we shall—to visit Servyn as much as possible. Aji may come next time, too! Not so bad after all, eh?”

It wasn’t _good_ , but it was better, he supposed. With one last hug, Il-Tei disappears through the door with a gentle click. With said click, Servyn wants to collapse back into the sheets, but instead opts to sit by the edge of the bed, so as not to squish and crumple his freshly brushed hair.

Well…now what? He may want to crawl back into bed and never leave the hidey-hole of blankets ever again, but he promised Il-Tei he’d try to swim…figuratively, he hoped. The only water he’s seen in Vvardenfell so far is slaughterfish-infested swamp and river water strangers publicly bathe in. Was walking okay? He could walk through town, pretend like he has something to do and places to be…but what then, after that? Sooner or later he’d have to actually find _something_ to do, but the thought of that something involving Mage’s Guild tasks exhausts him just by thinking about it. _Town it is._

He grasps the satchel to hoist it over his shoulder, but pauses upon realizing it’s much heavier than he remembered. Opening it reveals a bounty of treasure: a filled waterskin, two bottles of blue liquid (magicka potions, he realizes), a bundle of hackle-lo tied to some scrib jerky, a smaller pouch that’s a bit hefty and jingles upon being moved (coins?) and a rolled up piece of parchment, which upon unrolling shows it’s a map of Vvardenfell.

Servyn doesn’t cry, not even when he gathers the satchel and rushes to leave so fast that he slams face-first into the door before grasping the knob. Not even when he could feel a trickle run down his nose and taste something salty dripping onto his lip as he careens down the Ald-ruhn guild’s hallway.

_If she believes in me, then I have to try._

The sigh of relief Servyn releases at the front door after an uneventful journey from the bedroom (in which none of the mages he passed by acknowledged him whatsoever) turns into a sigh of defeat immediately upon opening said front door.

Ald-ruhn, he concludes with dread, is another huge city. Instead of stone cubes, the buildings are stone bug-shell-shapes. The ground is black ash instead of dirt, with equally dark cobbles fitted haphazardly together to make up streets, which are just as crowded and raucous as Balmora, except this time the crowds make even less sense to him because _why would anyone want live here, in this ash heap_? It wasn’t difficult to spot Red Mountain’s relatively close proximity in the distant sky—too close, as it was no longer just a vague shape in the horizon like before. He asks himself once more: _Who in their right mind thought to build a city here_? The one good thing he could say about it: everything’s not as cramped tightly together and reeking of skooma as Balmora. No, the overpowering taste in the air here is guar, cinder and…greef.

It reminds him of home—of Cyrodiil. Liquor was the one thing Servyn wasn’t allowed to touch, as it was among Arvosi’s many favored indulgences. Every night. And every week when it was time to clean his master’s study…the stench of greef was potent enough to drown in. This smell was by no means pleasant (as he assumed most liquors were supposed to smell foul) but he was certainly always curious about why drinking was so popular, not just with his master.

_I have coins now…maybe just a little taste…_

Servyn buries is head in his hands at the thought. Il-Tei didn’t give him such a generous amount of drakes just for him to waste it on _booze_!

 _She already wasted it giving it to you_.

In any case…it wouldn’t hurt to visit a tavern, for no other reason than to do _something_. He might even have a better time, now that he’s clean, hair combed, and wearing proper clothes!

It really can’t be overstated enough how much better it is to stroll through town here than in Balmora simply because the buildings and roads aren’t as tightly packed together in a labrynthian maze and actually resemble a functioning city…at least, as much as round carapace-shaped (and sometimes actual carapace) homes and shops can resemble a city people actually built and choose to live in. Like Balmora, outdoor stalls and markets decorate the bustling streets with grocers, pottery vendors, bone-smiths? (it didn’t feel right to call them blacksmiths, as they appeared to work exclusively with bonemold and chitin). One very spacious shop looked more like a petting zoo than a shop, as it consisted of a large pen of shalks apparently being sold as pets (A shalk as a pet!? They’re not very cuddly and like to gnaw on your clothes—that, he can attest to personally).

Thank goodness for decorative signs, for after ten minutes of trying not to get stomped on by merchants on guar-back and refusing to buy expensive bug musk, he spots an ornately illustrated wooden one swaying in the wind hanging from the curved roof of what looks like every other bugshell shaped building. The etching of what looks like a rat leaping into a pot seemed whimsical enough to indicate it was just a silly name for a tavern and not actually a place that sells rats ( _please, no actual rats_ …)

Inside The Rat in the Pot, patrons are mostly quiet and keep to themselves, either idly chattering (though mostly whispering) amongst their own small groups or eating silently at the counter. The proprietor herself, a Breton, shifts her gaze every which way, as if keeping a close eye on everyone. Servyn stiffens his back and ignores the air of suspicion lingering throughout the tavern, not wanting a repeat of the last time he stepped foot in one of these places. _This is just a normal tavern like all the others; you’re worrying too much!_

The Breton adopts the demeanor of a friendly merchant when he approaches. “Welcome to the Rat in the Pot, friend! Anything I can get for you?”

 _You can try to avoid it all you want, but you'll eventually have to follow Caius's orders; no better time to get it over with than now. You’re here to ask about this Zainsubani fellow. Say you’re here looking for someone_.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Hungry? Thirsty? No, don’t object, I get it. Life here ain’t easy—we don’t choose that. But we _can_ choose to relish in some afternoon drinking. Who cares if it’s too early to get drunk, eh? The Temple ain't have to know."

The next thing he knew, Servyn finds himself taking a set at the counter in front of a plate of roasted ash yams and a mug of some drink called mazte (so much for not wasting money on booze), a handful of coins lighter and metric ton of guilt and shame heavier. Did he already mess things up? He _did_ agree to being both hungry and thirsty because it was true, but he didn’t actually _want_ to be helped in that regard. He’s supposed to be the one helping! Working! To get paid!

Servyn sighs, attempting to calm himself. There’s no use beating himself up on an empty stomach, though he quickly lost his appetite out of shame for yet another blunder. He’ll just drink. Drink the…mazte.

One sip is enough to convince him he—no, everyone else must be crazy! It tastes like acid and burns his throat going down, settling like fire in his belly. He feels a bit woozy, though he can’t tell if it’s from nausea or exhaustion. Against his better judgment, he continues to drink it in small sips, hoping it somehow magically gets better the more one tries it (it doesn’t, but he wasn’t about to waste Il-Tei’s money by dumping it).

At some point a voice rings through his head, asking him “Hello? I need help, Dunmer! Hello?” in an increasingly annoyed tone. It soon grows louder than ringing and into something that sounds close enough to exist in reality, right next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots…a lavishly dressed woman? Yet another reason Vvardenfell feels so strange and foreign: a woman! Willingly talking to him, and asking for his help no less! Going off his meager experience, she’s either a venom-tongued guild leader, a kindly and motherly mage, or a god. Servyn decides that he would appall any of these three, so he keeps quiet and takes another sip of mazte, pretending as if he didn’t hear her.

“Excuse me!” the woman cuts in tersely. Servyn winces in disgust and coughs a bit; though his reaction is spurred on by the harsh palette of the mazte, the woman takes it as a response to her woes and throws her arms up in disbelief.

“I can’t believe this—not even the short fat one in a dress will listen to me! Oh, what a terrible state the world has come to, when a woman’s plight goes ignored! Unanswered! Mocked! Why, by Vivec’s mercy—“

“ _What_? Ma’am—“ Servyn pleas, attempting to offer politeness in spite of her uncharitable remarks. Nobody else in the tavern seems too phased by her outburst, as if this was a regular occurrence.

“Nobody listens to me! Nobody’s willing to help a woman in her time of need—nobody! I stay here every day asking for help, I get nothing! Ask around outside and in other taverns and guilds—nothing! Then I’m forced to come back here hoping new out of town adventurers are around, and even they turn me away!”

“Sera—“

“You understand what that’s like, don’t you? The feeling of being turned away, not taken seriously? You’ll listen to my story, won’t you?”

 _Why is it always Imperials giving him trouble? What do they have against him?_ Regardless, he nods, setting his cup down so as not to wince and unintentionally offend her again. _God, do I really want to drink, though._

“Y-you needn’t worry about me judging you, sera. I’ll help if I can, just please tell me what you need calmly!”

“Good,” the Imperial huffs, as if it were obvious Servyn would agree in the end. “My name is Viatrix Petilia, and I’m a pilgrim with the Temple. We take pilgrimages—journeys across the land to her many shrines, offer our gifts and souls to the Three, and in turn receive our blessings.”

Sounds like the kind of thing a god would make their followers do: hike around the entire province to shrines (which by their construction and existence alone should already be enough proof of devotion) to demand they give gifts—not to them personally because _a god would never waste time visiting their subjects in person_. No, they instead want people to leave gifts at their designated vanity monuments—at _nothing_!

He doesn’t voice any of these thoughts, of course.

“Well…trouble is the roads are quite dangerous, and the shrine I need to get to is located within Ghostgate. Nobody’s brave enough to help me! But you, you’re different, right? You’re…big and…stro—hm.”

Servyn wants to comment on how she clearly struggles to say anything good about him, but if he were being honest, she’s already said more nice things about him than _he’s_ ever said about himself.

He feels a tap at his shoulder, who he assumes is Viatrix touching him for...goodness knows why, but her sneers of “Who are you?” convinces him to turn around face a well dressed Dunmer cradling a pouch—a coin pouch, from the looks of it.

“Excuse me, sera. Forgive me for my forwardness, but am I right in overhearing your plans to travel to Ghostgate?”

_What in the world is going on? Why are people looking at me, like they want me to do something for them?_

“Ahem. I shan’t take up too much of your time. I am Adibael, merchant by trade. Right now I’ve a matter of personal business that requires the adventuring sort willing to travel to Ghostgate…two things hard to come by even in Ald-ruhn. But alas, I’m here on behalf of my daughter’s wishes—her friend, you see, he’s…well. Let’s just say the boy is a reckless one, and I’m looking to pay a fellow handsomely to check up on the fool. What do you say?”

 _Me? Check up on someone as if I’m any good at checking up on anything? I don’t even check up on my own wellbeing!_ Self-deprecation aside, he felt some sympathy for the mer. If Viatrix had trouble finding someone to help her with something involving this Ghostgate, then he mustn’t have had much better luck either.

_What are you doing? You're supposed to be meeting someone here in Ald-ruhn. Whether you want to follow them or not, you're going to have to eventually._

"Ahem, I'm sorry, sera. I'm supposed to meet with one Hassour Zainsubani here in town—"

"Excuse me," Viatrix cuts in, "will you be doing this before or after you help me? I don't have much free time to sit around and wait!"

Ignoring her, hard as it is, Servyn attempts to continue but is cut off a second time, though not out of rudeness.

"Ah, Hassour! A fine f'lah, that one. He's partial to the Ald Skar Inn, but you won't find him there now, nor for a while. We were just catching up yesterday, as he was loading his guar with redware shipments due for Maar Gan. I'm sure he'll be back within the week."

Silence. With his luck he should've expected something like this, but he couldn't decide whether he was disappointed at the news. Any excuse to set aside Caius's orders wasn't a _bad_ thing at all, but it did mean...

"Great! No more distractions—may we depart for Ghostgate now?" Viatrix all but sings just as Adibael joins in with "My offer still stands, if you're heading out that way, sera." 

_Say no. Say no. Say no. Say—_

“If…if it’s on the way, I suppose I can help…” he mutters against every protest in his mind.

“What!” Viatrix protests. “You’re supposed to be helping _me_!”

“I-I am!” Servyn gulps, as now even the other Dunmer eyes him warily. _Stupid, stupid servant you are, always saying yes to every request! Well now it’s too late to say no to either of them!_

“Oh, don’t worry about getting the job done—success isn’t important, I just want to keep my promise to my daughter, and I only promised her I’d ask around town for help. Whether you find him or not, or even bother to ask if anyone’s seen an Ashlander boy isn’t any of my business.”

That didn’t make Servyn feel any better. He’ll certainly keep his eye out for an “Ashlander boy”, whatever that means (Isn’t most of Vvardenfell ashlands? Isn’t this city in an ashland? Aren’t we all ashlander boys?). The merchant nods, places the generously sized pouch that clinks against the counter surface in front of Servyn, and offers a quick “thank you, sera” before taking his leave. Was he supposed to say thank you back? He felt as if he should’ve, given the Dunmer essentially gave him free money with explicit indifference for whether or not he even did the job well.

“Bah, good riddance. Anyways, remember me?” Viatrix had stood and watched the whole time, glaring at him the whole time. Servyn hadn’t noticed when talking to the merchant, but now that he’s gone, there’s nothing left to distract him from her venom. He had to say something, and for once he knew exactly what that should be.

“Miss Petilia, why don’t we hit the road right away? Get an early headstart, yes?”

“Finally, a good idea,” she huffs. “Meet me by the entrance, I’ll gather my things.”

His eagerness to leave as soon as possible was the furthest thing from genuine excitement to venture through ash wilderness looking for a shrine, but he had to offer _something_ to calm Viatrix’s ever-deepening scowl. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad! Maybe he could even nibble at his lunch before—

“Dunmer! Actually, I need your help packing. Come along.”

Servyn obeys. He always obeys.

The two had been on the road for…maybe five minutes? Five minutes after leaving the threshold of civilization into wilderness—five measly minutes of silence, until the complaining starts. Complaining about the weather, complaining about the heat, complaining about having to carry her own luggage even though Servyn offered to carry it for her (which was vehemently declined, of course. Can’t have a non-believing heretic touching a holy lady’s fineries. Something like that).

“Well? Why _don’t_ you worship the Tribunal? You’re a Dunmer, aren’t you?”

 _What’s that supposed to mean?_ “No, sera. I’ve only recently arrived here. For…uh. A vacation.”

“ _Vacation_?” she sneers. “Really, it’s not acceptable for a man to lie to a woman right to her face. Nobody willingly comes to Vvardenfell, least of all to relax. Why are you really here?”

Servyn would rather bang his head against the dead ashland trees than answer that question, though despite knowing Viatrix only briefly, he had a hunch she’d prod at him until he gave her one. She doesn’t have to know it’s a _dishonest_ answer.

“I came from out of province, on a research mission. I’m studying Morrowind’s flora.”

“Ah. So you’re an outlander.”

“I guess.”

Viatrix thinks for a moment. “Nobody really told you about the Three? Don’t you expedition types have to learn about the place you’re visiting before you come here? That ought to be the first thing you learn about—they watch over and protect all of us from the ills of the world! _All_ of them.”

It’s fuzzy, but Servyn vaguely remembers some mentions of a “Three” during his youth in Morrowind. Mostly in Mournhold, though he was all too eager, at the first chance he got, to leave that wretched city where he was born. Where he was abandoned to starve on the streets by a family of too many children and not enough money to feed them all. One had to go—it only made sense to ditch the youngest and runt-like in the bunch. He wasn't going to go far in life being so small and weak anyway. Sometimes he wonders why he ever bothered to prove them wrong.

Well. In any case, the idea that this Three protects _everyone_ from bad things is dubious to him. But…far be it from him to interfere with her rose-tinted spectacles regarding the matter.

“Pah. You silly apprentice types listen to everything your higher ups tell you, huh? Academic men are quite boring—all they care about is following the rules of logic. They ought to be smart enough to know faith _is_ logic, when you can actually see your gods in the flesh, speaking to and assisting their people directly—like the Three.”

She’s right, he supposed. Given the invisible shackles wound around his psyche, conformance truly is his ever-oppressive god, and the status quo his religious texts.

“Such a shame, really. They could probably fix you.”

Servyn blinks. “Huh?”

“Well, I’m just saying…if you prayed to the Three, perhaps you wouldn’t be so short and…muttish.”

_Huh???_

“That’s what pilgrimages are for! Perhaps if you started one today, our merciful and benevolent lords may grace you with a few more inches and red eyes.”

To say he was doubtful of any mercy or benevolence in gods was an understatement; the one god he’s spoken to only seemed interested in riddles and questionable prophecies. _Oh, stop saying you met a god! That was just a silly dream…_

If only his entire life was a dream. Maybe if he woke up, he’d be a completely different mer than he is now. Any god that could make that happen…why, he’d drop to his knees and worship them on the spot.

Servyn had no way of knowing if this was a particularly bad evening for travelers-who-wish-to-avoid-cliff-racers, or if the Molag Amur ashlands were always this infested with them (the truth of course being the latter)—either answer didn’t make it any less enjoyable to hurl lightning bolts at them, first only doing so at the ones who got too close, then having to eliminate them on sight when it was apparent they would _not_ leave them alone. Zapping cliff racers out of the sky and causing a rain of charred corpses plunging into the mountainous wilderness was by no means fun, especially when a close call from an attempted ambush leaves a mangled racer landing in an explosion of ash right at their feet. It wasn’t the sight of a dead body that makes Servyn jump—it was Viatrix’s ear-piercing shrieks.

“Really now! What kind of an escort are you, letting such a disgusting monster get so close to a poor woman as I!”

“I’m only one mer…” he replies, thinking very hard for _something_ to calm her down. “Er! This isn’t so bad, sera! We’ve got meat for supper, and there’s plenty of trama root around. It’s a bit late, right? Better time than any to set up camp for the night!”

Viatrix frowns. “I have to be there in two days, you know. But I suppose I am a bit peckish…”

_Finally, a break…_

“Fine then,” she scoffs. “I’ll set up my camp over there. Do whatever it is you hunter sorts do to harvest the good meat and have something ready in an hour, got it?”

He may not be a seasoned hunter, but Servyn knew a thing or two about cutting meat from dead animals—and maybe racer meat will taste better than sewer rat! With a flick of his palm, a bound dagger materializes in his grasp, and he works his way through the charred skin to cut portions of yellowish meat with one hand and…oh, he doesn’t have a good surface to chop the meat into bits on. With his other hand, he summons a bound battle axe, which he lays flat on the ground to use its enormous blade as something of a makeshift surface.

Arvosi used to tell him how all conjured daedra, even weapons, were intelligent beings with a mind of their own. Servyn feels bad, wondering how the dagger and axe would feel about being used to chop up cliff racer meat chunks in the middle of nowhere. If they could speak and move, would they curse him to Oblivion and chop _him_ up? He wants to mutter about how attractive that fate looks compared to his current circumstances, but decides against it. _Il-Tei wouldn’t want me to say that…_

He carries the edible meat by holding the battle axe with one hand, with the blade’s flat side facing up like an oversized spatula, and dispels the bound dagger in his other hand to cast Telekinesis on the discarded guts and corpse, tossing it far into the wilderness away from their camp (which, judging by the fact he could hear profanities and wrestling with pitching a tent even from where he’s standing, said camp isn’t very far away). Either out of courtesy or passive aggressiveness (the latter, probably) pots and utensils lie in a haphazard pile in the center of the campsite, scattered around one single cauldron which was stood upright and…filled with water?

“I went ahead and fetched some water since you were taking too long—you’re welcome!”

Help was help—he wasn’t going to complain about that. One fire spell later and the hearth is set. Luckily for him trama root is plentiful everywhere, so gathering a few bundles before the water finishes boiling is easy. Speaking of which, he dumps the ingredients into the cauldron, as the rhythmic bubbling indicated the water was ready. Now all that’s left is to wait and stir the concoction every now and then with the (hopefully clean) ladle he found discarded on the ground. So were the bowls and spoons, for that matter… He gives them all a good drench with water from his own waterskin and wipes them down with his sleeves for good measure. He sets them neatly aside to watch the stew. The meat’s browned significantly, making it look marginally edible compared to the sickly yellow it was when raw, and the roots smell pungently of…flight? One habit he never quite broke was a skill Arvosi taught and demanded him to use frequently: the ability to discern alchemical properties through aroma. He supposed cooking wasn’t _too_ different from alchemy…and judging by the smell each ingredient gave, one could perhaps create levitation elixirs with the right equipment. The possibility of gaining temporary flight after a belly full of this stew didn’t sound too bad, actually.

Racer meat for something filling, trama root for vegetables, and water from a nearby river that very likely is more ash than water…not the most appetizing combination for a supper (he’s more worried about how Viatrix will feel about it than anything, but it was all they had! Surely she’d understand…)

“Stew’s ready!” he calls. Servyn helps himself to his own bowl, more than eager to settle down into the dirt and scarf down what will probably taste as pleasant as coals, but will most certainly be miles better than listening to Viatrix’s lamenting again. As if reading his mind and deciding it her mission to bully him, she joins him at the pot—not to help herself to dinner as well (not yet, at least) but to stand over him with her arms crossed, wearing a mixture of concern and ire.

“Won’t the smell attract kagouti? Terribly large creatures they are—and dangerous! Ahem, not for me, because _you’re_ going to protect me, right? But ah, that’s just it… you’re tiny, and they’re huge—big enough to swallow you in one bite!” She pauses for a moment to ponder. “Hm. Might take more than one bite, actually…” she mumbles, her eyes clearly resting on his midsection.

“If they come, I’ll shock them,” Servyn answers, as Viatrix pours a bowl for herself. Once she’s turned around back to her tent and no longer paying attention to him, Servyn dumps his own back into the pot, no longer hungry. He curls up into the dirt, nestling to get as comfortable as one can on the ground and grimaces. Sleeping rough wasn’t anything new to him, but clean well-groomed hair was, and it certainly won’t look like that after tonight. He dozes off to a lullaby of scrib chatter and almost-hidden murmurings about “such horrible tasting stew”—at least there were no cliff racers.

“Honestly! What kind of man doesn’t carry coffee grounds with him?” Viatrix sneers as she sips at her cup—a cup of black coffee, which was made from her own grounds upon disappointment that Servyn didn’t have any, so she begrudgingly had to use her own. Their morning was far from pleasant—the pilgrim was already cranky enough waking up early with a throat dry from ash despite resting beneath a fine guarskin tent. Servyn, who slept in the dirt without such shelter actually managed to sleep in despite being exposed to the elements—that is to say, he _would’ve_ slept in, had Viatrix not poked him with her walking stick to pack her things back up while she made coffee, only to become even crankier upon learning he didn’t have any for her to use.

And so began the now tirade of complaints about how men ought to be socially obligated to have coffee grounds and tea leaves on hand at all times. Said man who doesn’t carry coffee grounds with him instead carries her enormous backpack of camping supplies (sanctity be damned, apparently, when “ineptitude ought to be disciplined”) and practically waddles in a clanging cacophony of pots and pans attached to the side of the pack. The Feather spell may have lightened the load, but the sheer size and veil of utensils and supplies still managed to slow him down.

“You’re taking too long. We’ve only got a day left!”

Servyn looks to a nearby sign—the third they’ve passed since leaving Ald-ruhn, and was relieved to find they were still heading towards Ghostgate. He'd checked his map plenty of times before and during the trip, but vague lines symbolizing roads only explained so much without any words. _If only these signs would tell us how close we are to our destination!_

“Hello? You heard me, didn’t you? _One day left_!”

“Y-yes, sera!” Servyn calls in his most polite tone. Viatrix stands with her arms crossed waiting not so patiently for him to catch up, which he wasn’t too excited to do as it meant having a better look at a very sour face of disappointment.

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

 _Not even a little bit!_ He doesn’t say this out loud, but the deepening of her scowl hints that she knows that’s what he’s thinking.

“I-it’s okay, sera! We ought to be close…ah! I can use a Detect spell, a very strong one that can pick up the sound and voices of people from far away—shrines have lots of people, right?”

“So you really _don’t_ know where the shrine is. Bah. I ought not even pay you for incompetence.”

Servyn bites his tongue—actually physically bites it. He decides it best to act rather than speak, and begins channeling a Detect Life incantation. In an instant, several miles worth of ecosystem floods his senses. Most of this is cliff racer screeches, bubbling lava, and scrib squeaking. Servyn walks forward, altering the spell to pick up far range in a specific direction rather than within a large general area. He points it right in the direction the sign points to, and concentrates, until…

Something that sounds like a male Dunmer rings faintly—he couldn’t quite tell because the voice growls and grunts in distress, as if its owner is in pain. Just as Servyn fears, another sound—three new sounds which resemble the cries of monsters overpower the Dunmer, whose cries grow more desperate.

“What’s wrong? Why do you look so pale?” There isn’t a single hint of concern in Viatrix’s tone. She sounds more annoyed than anything, but her coldness was the last thing he worried about right now. Without pausing to explain what he heard, the Detect spell dissipates into a Feet of Notorgo spell, and he runs off without a word, not stopping at Viatrix’s rapidly increasing furious shouting. As he barrels down the road, he refreshes Detect periodically to ensure he’s going the right way, until the screaming becomes a faint echo in the wilderness he can hear without the aid of magic—must be close.

After a few more minutes of running, he stops abruptly, kicking up a cloud of ash in the dirt as he skids to a halt, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. Just below his elevated position on the road, down the bare rocky hill: a Dunmer warrior battles three ferocious clannfear, with nothing more than a chitin sword and bonemold shield at his side. The clannfear appear to have the upper hand, if the blood and bruises of the warrior that he could see even this far away were any indication. Exasperated huffing and puffing joins his side some time after he’d stood frozen and cold like a statue. Much like a stone, he doesn’t respond or acknowledge Viatrix berating him for “leaving me behind like that! I’m not paying you a single drake, you hear that? Such appalling, horrible service ought to warrant _you_ paying _me_ for the trouble—excuse me, are you even listening!?”

_No. No. They're going to tear him apart. Rip him to bits, like the Imperial student._

The closest thing to a response she gets is him leaning forward to return her luggage at her feet, and break into a full on sprint without explanation. As Servyn rushes towards the figure with nothing but red flooding his vision and the distant calls of “Wait, where are you going? Hello?” falling on deaf ears, fire spurts from his palms, first as embers dancing round his arms and flickering off his back, then as crackling flames erupting from his fists, encasing him in a raging armor shell that boils with the kind of turmoil that’s about ready to explode any time now—a raucous booming explosion that reaches its breaking point when the first clannfear takes notice of him and delivers its first strike. Though the detonation lasts only a single blinding moment, filling what felt like the entire world with fiery destruction that rivals even the deepest depths of Oblivion, it quickly dissipates into the usual gray ashy landscapes of Molag Amur—now with dots of red flames decorating its trees and flora, the dead clannfear, and…the Dunmer warrior!

Perhaps he should’ve known a spell with such a large blast radius would engulf the poor mer as well. Perhaps he also should’ve known that he, being at the epicenter of the spell, would face the harshest lashes of the inferno, and currently sports more than a few flames of his own, burning his clothes and roasting his skin. But there's no time for that now—the Dunmer warrior lays bloodied and unconscious on the ground, sword and shield completely shattered to bits. Clannfear claw marks and burn wounds leave him a mangled mess curled within broken chitin and leather armor.

Requiring no orders whatsoever, Servyn pours the last of his strength and magicka into a healing spell, bathing the warrior in a mystic blue light. His arms fall to his side like dead weights with a sense of relief, as in the few second just before the sea of smoke consumes the last of his breath and his vision goes dark as he falls with a thud into the ash, he catches a glimpse of the warrior’s lacerations closing.


	9. Red Mountain

_Nerevar…dear Nerevar. So close you lie, to this domain—our home, the place which most who swore by your life betrayed. One kept loyal, one kept by your side—continues to keep by your side! This one, the very same who waits still, in this home, for your return._

_Do you see it? The red this place burns in—steeped in the deep crimson of your blood, forever a reminder of its unjust spilling? Every day I live in this graveyard of sins—not my own, for I should never lay malicious hand unto you. It is Their sins I endure. I do this for you. When you return home, you will understand. No, it is not yet time. I know. Though you rest so close, you’re not ready. Neither am I, perhaps, to see you again._

_Ah. The bells are ringing now. They sing the climax of this pitiful meeting, in which I speak to you, and you say nothing to me. Just like our days of old—you were always more of a do-er than a talker. So much unlike myself._

Servyn awakens with a gasp, breathing greedily for any bit of air he can get, only to realize there’s plenty of it in the well insulated stone temple walls, where he lies not in the pit of fire and dirt he remembers last being in, but in a modest communal bed underneath a red quilted blanket. Across from him, to his right, is another bed where the Dunmer warrior lies, still unconscious. The mer no longer wears armor, as it sits discarded on the bedside floor, broken beyond repair. He looks…remarkably normal, donned in a brown doublet, red scarf, and guarskin pants, which despite the distinct tears in fabric from the clannfear, they miraculously don’t seem to have suffered burns compared to the near charred pile of ash his armor’s been reduced to.

_This is your fault. You did this._

He faintly makes out sounds from the room adjacent to this one: strange garbled ramblings of worship chants, the clanging of metal against metal, and a woman’s voice that calls “I’ll be right there, after I check up on the wounded ones,” that grows closer and more audible as it’s spoken. A moment later, the door opens to reveal a Dunmer healer in temple robes carrying a tray of tea, a bowl half filled with water, and two linen rags. She places these on the nightstand between the two beds and soaks one, wrings it, and places it on the warrior’s forehead. She does the same with the second and turns to Servyn, repeating so without a word.

“Um—“

“Drink this,” the healer cuts in, handing him a steaming cup of greenish tea. “Chokeweed. It won’t taste good, but it’s medicinal.”

She’s right twicefold, for not only did it taste excessively bitter, but it also burned his tongue at the touch, as it was too soon after brewing to comfortably sip. Nevertheless, Servyn drinks without protest, as the woman didn’t look the sort to take kindly to complaints.

“Quite the fire storm out there. Even gave the Armigers some trouble, fishing you two out of the blaze.”

Servyn pales. Of course somebody would’ve had to get them out of there, otherwise he’d have died in flames. _If only…_

“Was that you?” the woman asks.

_This is it, they’re going to end me! Send me to prison! Some kind of…holy prison, probably! Or turn me into a kwama mine slave…_

“Mm,” the mer drawls, almost in a chuckling manner. “Such destruction from a small half-breed as you… Even the blight creatures aren’t as exciting.”

_Get out. Leave. If you run fast enough, cast Feet of Notorgo, maybe they won’t catch you…_

Servyn leaps from bed, ready to bolt for the door until the moment he actually leaves the sheets and a wave of sensations hits him like a boulder—first is the weakness in his legs and searing pain in his…everywhere, as his skin feels raw and scorched—yet somehow, at the same time, he feels a chill run through his body. Looking down reveals that he is in fact covered in splotchy pink burn wounds, which he’s able to see in full view because…he’s stripped down to nothing but his undergarments.

To say he yelps like a newborn guar, several pitches higher than he’s ever cried before is an understatement only further exaggerated by the second outburst upon retreating away from the healer so abruptly that he trips on the bed frame behind him and crashes into the mattress in a flurry of legs still kicking in an attempt to run away despite the intense pain in his skin.

“Please settle down. Your dress was in tatters anyway. It’s with the temple seamstress.”

This raises a number of questions—none of which Servyn is calm and collected enough to ask in a remotely coherent way. All he’s able to muster is vaguely human-sounding noises of distress.

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about; I was the one to undress you in the first place.”

That didn’t make things better! At all! He’d never been more eager to burrow back underneath the blankets and curl up in the tightest cocoon possible, so tight that he could hardly breath within his enclosure. The rapidly increasing heat forming in his cheeks and ears didn’t help.

“You’ll suffocate like that.”

_Good! Let me die! I’m never leaving this bed ever again, not even if a necromancer tries to raise my skeleton!_

The healer makes no further attempt to goad him, and turns her attention to the warrior. Everything seems quiet for a bit, save for raspy breathing, only to eventually be accompanied by what sounded like the spectral singing of magicks followed by a frustrated profanity.

As it turns out, concern over the stranger’s wellbeing saves him from shame-induced death, as he peeks out from underneath the covers just enough to watch blue restorative light linger from the warrior’s still lifeless body. Despite the healer’s best attempt to remain stoic, she can’t entirely hide her uneasiness for the mer’s condition.

“I…I can help. I can heal him, too. Just watch…”

Servyn readies his palms, trying with all his might to summon up just one ounce of magicka, but nothing comes to him. He feels just as drained as he last remembers being conscious. _That shouldn’t be right, I must’ve been out for a few hours. That’s at least some rest!_

Not that said rest was at all rejuvenating. He had another one of those nightmares again. The voice sounded familiar, as if he’d heard it in a dream before, but he couldn’t remember if it was the one with the star god or the masked man. Did it really matter? Neither one made any sense to him.

“The magic will work its course in time. Stay outside the sheets; your burns will heal faster. Try not to die while I’m gone.”

The boredom starts setting in again. The healer wasn’t necessarily pleasant nor lively company, but she was at least something there to distract him from…everything. How did they get here? Was Viatrix okay? Is this the Dunmer the merchant from Ald-ruhn asked him to look out for? If so, he was right about the mer being reckless, taking on those clannfear all by himself…

_You took on that same beast all by yourself too._

Servyn sighs, heavily. What would Il-Tei think of him right now? Would she be upset that he’s hurt another mer? Disappointed that his spell wasn’t strong enough to take him down alongside the clannfear?

 _No. Stop assuming she’s a miserable piece of shit just because you’re a miserable piece of shit._ She’d probably fret over his injuries and tell him everything will be okay, because she’s actually a _good_ person, unlike—

The warrior starts coughing, showing the first sign of life since awakening in the temple. Servyn nearly jumps at the unexpected yet not unwelcome sound, though settles to watch beneath his blanket veil as the Dunmer slowly opens his eyes, blink a few times, and attempt to sit up only to quickly fall back into bed, wincing and groaning in pain.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Where am I?”

_Should I answer him? I guess I count as “someone”…_

“Um…” Servyn peeps, causing the warrior to flinch and abruptly turn his head towards his direction. The Dunmer squints.

“Hello…blanket mound?”

Servyn rises from his burrow just enough for his head to be visible, which is met by squinted eyes changing to raised eyebrows and a bewildered “Oh?”

“Greetings…eh…outlander.”

Servyn frowns, mumbling a “Hello” in return, for no other reason than politeness. The warrior makes a second attempt to sit up, but curses at the pain just a bit of movement brings him.

“N’chow…what happened?

Servyn looks to the floor. _Should I tell him everything? Won’t he hate me? Attack me for setting him on fire?_ Then again, the opposing mer seems remarkably unscathed, burn-wise, though still appears troubled.

“The clannfear…what happened to the clannfear? I was fighting them, and then…fire. Lots of fire. I don’t remember anything after that. Where did that fire come from?”

_What else are you going to tell him? That the fire came from god? You can’t even name a god!_

“It…was my fire, sera.”

Now the warrior squints again, examining Servyn closely as if it were ludicrous to think such destruction came from him.

“You? Really?”

“I-I didn’t _mean_ for the spell to be that strong! I saw them attacking you, and just wanted them dead, and…and stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” the stranger raises an eyebrow.

“Like I know something I'm not telling you! Believe me or don’t; what’s important is they’re dead, and you’re alive. I _don’t_ know any more about how we got here than you do, so don’t ask me! I just want to…to…” Servyn couldn't finish such a sentence, even if his life depended on it. Nor could he finish it if his life were in no peril at all. He wouldn’t be able to finish it period. All he knew was this other Dunmer is still looking at him funny, and he didn’t like it.

“It’s not that I _don’t_ believe you. It’s just…well. It’s just, you’re a bit…”

_Short? Fat? Ugly? Is that what the warrior wants to say?_

“You don’t look like the type who could take out three clannfear all by himself, is all.”

_Sure, say it the nice way._

Servyn rolls over to lay on his other side to face the wall, away from the warrior, though not without a cry in pain.

“Then again…I _did_ weaken them for you. In fact, I could’ve taken them on all by myself.”

“You had some pretty bad lacerations before I healed them,” Servyn mumbles. The warrior frowns as if he’d heard him, though quickly melts into abashment.

“That fire _was_ really powerful, though.”

Servyn growls.

“ _You_ must be really powerful.”

“Gods—“ he wants to protest, to say he has no idea what he’s talking about, but the severity of his burns really couldn’t be explained any other way…at least, on him. The warrior doesn’t sport any noticeable splotches in his skin.

“If my fire was so “powerful”, how come you’re hardly burned?”

The warrior blinks. “Dunmer are pretty fire resistant—we’re used to it, out here in the ashlands. But I guess you’re not…all…?” He examines Servyn (as much of him as he can, given the mer had long since retreated into the blankets like a grouchy sea horker sinking into the sea, grumbling much like one, in an attempt to make it clear he didn’t want to talk about it.) The other mer seemed torn between honoring this wish and wanting to speak further—the latter of which he eventually chooses.

“I’m Julan. Julan Kaushibael, ashlander.”

“Servyn. Just Servyn, nobody special. Can we stop talking now?”

“No. If you’re some kind of powerful wizard, or…powerful person in general, then maybe you could help me after all!”

Servyn doesn’t respond, this time on purpose instead of the usual lack of words.

“Look, this isn’t easy for me, asking for help from an _outlander_. Sheogorath, what would I tell my tribe?”

“You can tell them I said no. There!”

“Gah, listen! I’m _supposed_ to be a strong warrior, because I have a sacred mission to carry out on behalf of my people. But, well…I’m not strong, at least, not strong _enough_. My mother says I’ll be fine because the gods are watching over me, but…well, maybe if it wasn’t for your fire, I’d have been dead back there!”

Servyn remains quiet, a sedentary lump within the quilt, unmoving and unresponsive to the ashlander’s words.

“Of course I believe her—that the gods are watching me and all that. But what if that’s not enough? The gods watch over a lot of people; they can’t always be there to save me, so I have to save myself. But I can’t do that when I’m just…not strong enough! But you’re strong—your fire is strong, so you must be too. No, you _are_ , because you took out all of those clannfear. I hate to ask this of you, especially an outland—er, what I’m trying to say is, would you consider training me?”

Servyn pops out of the blanket grousing, as a wide-eyed and frazzled-hair mess.

“Ah, there you are! Does that mean you’ll help me? You’re about to say “Fine, I’ll help you!” right?”

“I left…huff…the blanket…because it’s hard to breathe in there…and the healer told me to…stay…”

Julan allows Servyn to catch his breath, but gives him a look that states “I won’t leave you alone about this.” Truly the worst time to be stuck in bed with no magicka, weak and vulnerable—and this warrior wants him, a blobby splotchy mess of a mer with no direction in life to train him? That was the worst part—he can’t even say no on the grounds of being busy or belonging somewhere important. He doesn’t belong anywhere, nor is he beholden to a master anymore. He can’t point to someone else and say “Sorry, I’m busy working for them and can’t help you!” He _used_ to be able to say that, but now…

“I don’t think I can help you, Julan. Whatever you think I am is likely much more charitable than the truth.”

“I don’t have to _think_. I _saw_ your strength, even felt firsthand, too. Had I been anyone else, my burns would be just as bad as yours.”

Once again, Servyn is at a loss for words. He wants to say no just _because_ , but the more he thinks about it, the more he questions why. He doesn’t have anything else to do, and the ashlander sounds serious, albeit a bit crazy. Plus, he _did_ engulf the mer in flames not long ago; perhaps he ought to help out, _just a little bit_ , to make things right.

“I’ll…help you, as much as I can. But don’t expect much out of me.”

The mer beams. “Great! You won’t regret it—I can handle myself, for the most part. I can fight, cast spells, run fast, repair weapons…”

“Sounds like you have everything figured out already…”

Julan frowns. “Hey, don’t start that again. Anyway, now that this is settled, are we still near Ghostgate?”

“We’re inside the temple hostel, I think.”

“Good! I mean, not good, because it’s the _Temple_ , but…well! I have something I need to do here, within Ghostfence—the big magical barrier thing around Red Mountain. There’s this big gate that leads inside, and I want to go in there. I _have_ to go in, to…get used to it.”

Servyn recalls something of a magic wall around Red Mountain, shuddering at how close they must be to the big volcano. “Isn’t it dangerous? Surely there’s a reason it’s heavily gated off?”

“Yes, _of course_ it’s dangerous. But I have to go in, for my mission. I can’t explain too much, and you wouldn’t understand anyway, but trust me, it’s important.”

Well, agreeing to help him out sure is going well already. Before he has the chance to object, the healer returns with a bundle of cloth and another bowl of water.

“Your wrappings need to be changed. Up.”

She looks to Servyn, who looks back at her with dread.

“Up? As in, sit up? As in, right now?”

“Yes.”

Julan raises an eyebrow, confused. The healer does the same, though for an entirely less friendly reason. Servyn doesn’t budge.

“But I…um. I’m not…dressed.”

“You are. I’m here to change them.”

“What I mean is: I’m _naked_! C-can’t the changing of bandages be done in a different room?” Servyn squeaks with a look of unease directed at Julan.

“We do not strut around unclothed in these holy halls—no, a blanket is _not_ suitable attire."

“Is this room _not_ also part of said holy halls!? Have the “ever-watchful eyes” of the Three _not_ already seen every inch of my…my _disgusting body_!?” His voice is a cry by this point, and his face as red as a dremora.

Julan shakes his head. “Sheogorath! If it really bothers you so much, _I’ll_ leave—“ he says coolly, though his composure instantly melts into pain and hushed profanities when he tries to sit up. He falls back into his pillow, wincing.

“You’ve your own bandages that need attending to after the half-breed. I implore you to not move at all, warrior.”

Julan grunts in acknowledgement, and the healer eyes Servyn with an expectant gaze. “Come now, sheets off. It will only take a moment.”

It wasn’t so different—it _shouldn’t_ be so different from the many times Servyn had to undress and redress his own burn wounds from goodness knows how often Arvosi used to send him on missions to harvest fire salts—right from the source. But something about allowing an elderly temple healer to do it for him, in the untentative clinical approach of one who’s done this for far too long, for far too many fretful transients turned him into an irritable child, whimpering at every slight movement, every moment the bandages, sticky from having clung to raw skin for so long, finally comes loose. Even when the healer reapplies a healing spell to his injuries, he flinches as if the magic would hurt him, though by some miracle he’s able to keep still when she redresses him with fresh bandages. Without a word, she turns to Julan to repeat the process, albeit casting a much more powerful mending spell. Thankfully, before she’s able to help him sit up, with similar whining and complaints, Servyn had already used what little drop of recovered magicka he had to cast the strongest, most potent Blind spell possible, on himself, to ensure Julan has at least _a little a bit_ of privacy.

“I didn’t look, you know. Er, mostly.”

Servyn’s reduced himself back to a blanket lump, a state he retreated to as soon as the healer left. During the long stretch of silence since, he’s regained at least enough energy to cast Waterbreathing, so he may stay submerged in his hidey-hole for a good while.

“Hey, don’t take that the wrong way! I mean, I peeked a bit after your bandages were back on. I’ve only seen your face, and I wanted to know what my trainer looks like.”

“Well, sorry you had to be disappointed so soon, that the mer you seem adamant in training you is…this.”

“What do you mean by “this”? It’s…different, but I’m not one of those scuttleheaded strongmen types who judges the worth of someone by their size, or lack thereof—“

Julan hushes, realizing the poor wording in his encouragement.

“What’s that? _Lack_ thereof? You didn’t see my horrific fat stomach like all of Mundus can’t help but point and laugh at? Surely you’ve held back calling me Nirn’s third moon out of politeness, but thought it the moment—“

“I didn’t think that at all! Sheogorath, you’re fine. I’ve just never seen a Dunmer like you before. One that looks so…like the man-mer.”

“Breton? My…father was a Breton, so what?” Servyn’s voice cracks at the end, despite trying very hard to say it with a strong will. The worst part about mentioning his family is the fact that he can at all, that he still remembers them, even if only a little bit. Julan picks up on the tense atmosphere and stops, darting his gaze around the room for a different subject to steer the conversation towards.

“After we finish up with this Ghostfence stuff, we should do some fireball practice!”

The blanket lump doesn’t move. “That sounds awful.”

“No, not awful. It’ll be fun and productive! You ever play catch and fetch? It’ll be like that, except with fireballs.”

“You don’t want to handle any of my fireballs.”

Julan blinks. “What’s that, huh? A gloat? Or…” he pauses, turning a bit red in the cheeks. Servyn gives him a confused look, as the temple interior was a decent temperature, and they were no longer on fire. Unless it was something he said? Does he doubt the strength of his spells? Servyn sighs, choosing not to finish this thought, as it came dangerously close to complimenting himself.

For a moment, it seemed the two would hang in an uncomfortable silence (though for Servyn, wouldn’t have been entirely uncomfortable, as he’d wanted to stop talking for a long while now) until the door opens once again. The healer appears with a tray of two bowls in one hand, and another set of tea in the other. She places the tea on a table tucked in the furthest corner of the room to replace the old cups with the bowls, and returns to the table to pour new ones. Servyn, being the only one capable of sitting up with ease, does so to peek at the bowls, which contain what looks like porridge and smells a bit of salt.

“What is it?” Julan asks, clearly disappointed he can’t find out himself.

“Saltrice pudding, sera,” the healer drawls. “As the Three protects and cares for their children, so too do we extend their kindness to wayward souls fallen beyond the hands of the Mother.”

“It’s a fancy of way of saying they'll take care of us while also calling us heathens,” Julan whispers before the healer reaches their vicinity. She hands him a tray for the bowl along with utensils and a teacup and helps him sit up and lie against the pillow (with much complaining), then turns to Servyn, giving him a once-over before offering the same.

“ _You_ will ask for more, no doubt. This is fine. Praise our merciful and benevolent Vivec, for His generosity nurtures all of His people; even so, for his…generously proportioned children who may wish for additional sustenance.”

Servyn attempts to remain neutral to the woman’s words, but he can feel his ears drooping. _Oh. Well_ _that’s just it, right? You’re a fat tub of guar shit and everyone can see it. Maybe you could do with a bit of starving._

“It’s alright, sera. I’m not hungry.”

“What? Servyn, we’re going to need all of our strength where we’re going, and…well, you don’t look very good right now.”

The healer takes her leave, believing a domestic dispute is about to start and wanting no part in such drama. Neither of them take notice of her departure, as their focus dedicates solely to the other—Julan’s concern against Servyn’s stubborness.

“You don’t need to tell me I look horrible, Julan—I’m quite aware.”

“That’s not what I meant! I’m trying to say, without any offense, that you look worse for wear than me, and that’s saying something! Have you been sleeping in the ashlands lately? No, I don’t mean in a yurt or on a sleeping mat, I mean _in_ the ashlands, right in the dirt.”

_Yes, but why would I tell you that?_

Julan retrieves the largest spoonful he can. “Wouldn’t you wish to have some of this?” he remarks, wearing a look of sincerity that falters into repulsion for just a split second, at the exact moment he brings the pudding into his mouth, until forcibly correcting back to sincere, finally ending with an even more forced swallow. “Delicious…!”

The unenthused frown on Servyn’s face only deepens further.

“Well I’m going to keep eating right in front of you until you eat some too.”

“Don’t do that. You’ll get fat too.“

“I haven’t once called you that, you know. Come on, I know it’s _Temple_ food, but you’re really going to turn down a free meal?”

At the worst time possible, as if even his own body was keen on bullying him just as much as Julan was, his stomach wails with the most mortifying grumbling only a long-ignored empty belly would make. Julan makes no comment about it, but wears the jolliest and most smug grin on his face, which endures even through more spoonfuls of pudding. _Oh, if only I’d saved that little bit of magicka to cast Divine Intervention! I’d rather get arrested than be here right now!_ Alas, he felt too exhausted to muster anything up anyway. Across from him, Julan’s smirk morphs, for a moment, into a frown. He turns away from Servyn, attempting to conceal a sigh, though it comes out audible and…sad?

“Please eat. I don’t want you to pass out before we even make it to the entrance.”

Servyn obeys—but only a little bit, and only because Julan seems intent on acting immature. _Just a few small spoonfuls, to shut my body up. That’s it_.

“Come on, Servyn! The entrance is just outside, where are you?”

Julan, despite the only warrior-like aspect of his newly unarmored self being a hastily repaired chitin sword and the jagged sharp-edged half of a bonemold shield strapped to his back, stands tall and confident, ready to take on mountain without fear and reignited vigor in his now (mostly) healed body—though not without a companion, for he waits not-so-patiently for Servyn to burst through the temple front door with just as much gusto and spirit for adventure as he had just a moment ago.

Which he does. Eventually. Sort of—if by “burst through with gusto” he meant shambling outside whilst groaning about how tired and sick he felt, with all of his enthusiasm directed at communicating how much he really didn’t want to be here.

“You really liked that saltrice pudding _that_ much?”

Servyn wants to answer no, that he most certainly did not, and he most certainly did _not_ mean to dance to the tune of everyone’s fiddle, _haha, the pudgy outlander ate five bowls of pudding, look at him waddle!_ Why was it so funny? He _may_ have eaten a little more cold goopy slop than he wanted to, _so what?_

Julan looks at him with an expression he’d call genuine concern, if the possibility of kindness existing in this gods-forsaken land weren’t so absurd.

“I’m sorry if you’re in a foul mood—I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” Servyn reassures despite the fact that said foul mood is because of exactly that…and a lot of things. “It’s just…well, couldn’t we have waited a bit longer before setting out to the big dangerous volcano to our impending doom?

“You promised you’d come with me as soon as the seamstress returned your satchel and finished repairing your dress—by the way, I have a second shirt and pair of pants, if you want to wear something…less…”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Servyn interrupts, trudging towards the large towering gate wedged between the two temple plazas. This must be the entrance.

“I think that triangle button opens it.” Julan points to a stone carved pillar situated right in front of the right side section of the gate…the _well guarded_ right side section of the gate.

“I don’t think they want people to use that button.”

“Well, how _else_ are we going to get to Red Mountain?”

 _We could always not go in the first place!_ Servyn doesn’t say this, for he knows the ashlander won’t like it. But surely he ought to take it as a sign to turn back? The temple wouldn’t assign a group of armed men in full glass armor to guard it for no reason.

“Ah! You can cast Levitation, right? We’ll just fly over Ghostgate, easy!”

“Julan, that one has a spear. And _that_ one has a crossbow!”

“So? They’re not going to open fire on two civilians.”

“They could mistake us for cliff racers—by accident or “by accident”, if you know what I mean!” A passing merchant eyes them suspiciously, so Servyn grabs Julan’s hand to move to a more secluded area behind a large statue of a spearman.

“Julan,” he starts, unable to suppress the nausea and exhaustion in his voice, “They’re probably guarding the gate for a good reason. Whatever it is you need to do there—“

“I can’t tell you. Not yet, anyway—but it’s important, I swear this on my ancestors. Or do you want me to swear on those mockery of gods you call the Tribunal? Or whatever it is the Imperials worship?”

“I don’t—what I mean is, that isn’t the point!” Now Servyn is the one shouting—actually shouting, instead of the one being shouted at. What has this land turned him into, to have _him_ be the one arguing against marching towards inevitable demise, as if _he’s_ the sane and rational one here!? The urge to curl up into a ball on the floor and never get back up is strong…again.

“It doesn’t matter what the reason is—those guards won’t let us through.”

Julan pouts for a bit, before beaming. “We’ll distract them!”

“What?”

“One of us—actually, it’ll probably have to be you, will distract them long enough for me to sneak past them, press the button, and run through. I doubt they’ll follow me through the gate—they may look tough, but they’re probably cowards. Once I’m through, you can make a break for it, maybe with some kind of speed-fortifying spell, or…”

“I am _not_ going anywhere near a bunch of guards!” Servyn didn’t mean for his words to come out so frightened, but…well, he was! What if they can smell the ex-con lingering from his conscience? “B-besides, I don’t have a lot of magicka to work with right now. I can’t just fly around at the speed of an ash storm or sprint like a raging kagouti like it’s nothing!”

“Alright, alright. What _can_ you do?”

He really couldn’t have asked a worse question. Servyn could both think of a lot of things and nothing at the same time—that is to say, he can do several variations of disappointing or inappropriate spells, yet nothing that would actually help them get past the guards. Was that really his fault, though? Was _anything_ helpful in this situation?

“I…can turn us both invisible, long enough for us to press the button and slip through the gate. But someone else would have to distract the guards first, for us to do that…” The armored men stand tall and diligent surrounded the pillar. There’s no way either of them would be able to sidestep or squeeze past them. In a weird way this impasse gave Servyn a bit of relief, as it will surely convince Julan that they actually can't and shouldn't go anywhere near Red Mountain, and they can turn back once and for all—

"How adept are you at conjuration magic?"

_Or not. Or we can continue to bash our heads against an immovable wall. Okay. Great._

"Not at all." This wasn't even a lie, yet Julan looks him over with doubt.

"You can't summon anything at all?"

"I... _can_ , but why would you want that?"

"A distraction! You could summon something, command it to cause a scene in the plaza to move the guards away from the button so we can turn invisible, press it, and slip through the gate! Do you have enough magicka for that?"

The technical answer to that question is yes, but on gods did he really want to say no. As usual, Julan wordlessly tells him "I'm not going to let you say no until we try it" with just his face.

“Come on, summon something up!”

_Don’t obey. Don’t obey. Just this once, don’t obey._

…Was the last thing Servyn thinks to himself before bathing the area in front of him in golden light from which an unusually well dressed jewelry-clad scamp appears. It was the only creature-summoning spell Arvosi trusted him with, thus the only creature-summoning spell he knew. He’d only ever done so to ask it questions regarding the alchemic properties of daedric flora, so the scamp, expecting his summoning to be for the same reason, emerges from the light with its arms crossed looking very annoyed.

“Bah. What does Master’s master require this time? Has he forgotten that bloodgrass is for turning his skin to that of a chameleon—“ the scamp pauses to blink, realizing they are in fact not in Arvosi’s study, but instead in the middle of nowhere in a place that doesn’t look at all like Cyrodiil.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Durukal, it’s a long story but I need your help with something unrelated to alchemy.” He pulls the scamp aside, away from Julan, to whisper “And please, for once, refer to me by my name instead of “Servant”. The warrior doesn’t know about Arvosi.”

The scamp named Durukal raises an eyebrow. “Then what does Servyn ask of me in this wasteland?” he drawls, pronouncing his name with the original pronunciation that sounds like “servant”. _Oops. Durukal doesn’t know…uh. Julan surely won’t notice!_

“Do you see those armed men over there? They’re guarding something precious, and we need to get to that precious thing. I can turn us invisible, but they’re too close together for us to reach it ourselves, and we need a…distraction, if you know what I mean.”

The scamp stares at him, unamused.

“I don’t think you can bargain with a daedra like that,” Julan whispers

“Uh…” Servyn brings a hand to his lips to ponder, despite that not actually helping him think any better. Durukal chuckles at this. “Hehe…Servyn makes such funny faces when he’s upset…”

This only causes him to make an even “funnier” (if by funnier, one means more frustrated) face. Durukal seems quite pleased with himself and cackles like a school boy. Julan watches, dumbfounded.

“Aren’t summoned creatures supposed to listen to their conjurer, Servyn?”

 _Maybe! If only the conjurer in this case were actually competent with anything!_ Although…the merriment towards his suffering _did_ give him an idea.

“Durukal, you like mischief, don’t you? Laughing in the face of other’s misery?”

The scamp stops to look at Servyn as if he’s stupid. “Of course! Who doesn’t?”

“Well! This predicament in which I need your…most esteemed assistance? It involves a lot of mischief, because…we’re doing something quite unlawful: sneaking past guards to get somewhere we’re not supposed to be, and we could really use even more mischief to do so without them seeing us. What’s more illegal than distracting the law so they don’t catch a couple of criminals, right?”

Durukal crosses his arms again, though he wears a look of interest rather than disdain. He won’t admit it nor vocalize it, but Servyn knows he’s enraptured the little daedra in his plan. “Fine, fine. Distract the men in green for Master to be a sneaky little rat—this is simple.”

“W-wait, not yet. We’ll hide behind that pile of crates near the gate over there first. I’ll need a minute or two to prepare the invisibility spell; until then, stay hidden behind this statue, please?”

The scamp hums in a petulant acknowledgement, and Servyn looks to Julan. “Let’s go. We have to look conspicuous.”

Julan didn’t have to try very hard to look like he belonged here. Servyn, on the other hand, wears his anxiety like a giant wart: hard to miss and morbidly ugly. He’s much more comfortable following orders than giving them, and he can’t help but feel this inexperience is going to land both of them in trouble. What if his plan doesn’t work? Why couldn’t he just have a spine and say no to the warrior’s request, to walk away with a resounding “Sorry, I can’t help you, and it’s not my problem!” because it _wasn’t_. But now it’s going to be, and they’re both going to pay the price for it.

“Servyn, get down!”

Oh. Seems Julan has already concealed himself in their hiding place while Servyn hardly noticed they’d walked here without anyone noticing (or at least not caring enough to stop them). He obeys, and ducks low (though in truth, he didn’t need to dip too far down to be completely obscured by the crates. Pouring every bit of magicka he has left into his palms, he readies a strong Chameleon spell in both hands—one ready to cast on himself, and the other ready to cast on Julan. Now to wait for Durukal. He couldn’t help but wonder how he’d approach the distraction, given his haughty and more refined nature compared to most other scamps.

As they quickly find out, the plan was simple: burst from behind the statue like a wild creature and throw fireballs at the guards, who react swiftly and chase him around the plaza, spears and swords and crossbows ablaze, though unable to land a blow to the nimble daedra who sounds like he’s having the time of his life. With a palm thrust upon Julan’s chest and his own, the two disappear completely and rush towards the pillar. Julan slams the button, and the gates rumble to life, beginning their ascent—a very, very slow ascent.

“Gah! Can’t this thing rise any faster!?”

Servyn looks back to Durukal, who had enough sense to lead the guards further back into the plaza. He didn’t expect the gate to open this slowly, and feared the spell wouldn’t last long enough for them to get through.

“Come on, we have to squeeze through the bottom!” Julan drops to his knees to crawl beneath what little bit of the gate has left the ground. Servyn follows suit just as, like he feared, the spell wears off in an instant, exposing them both. Surrounding pilgrims and temple staff were already suspicious of the gate suddenly activating and assumed it to be just, if the Armigers deemed it so. Now that it’s clear the culprits are two strangers trying (and failing) to sneak through, they make their presence known to all in the temple courtyard, shrieking for the guards to leave the scamp be and arrest the trespassers.

“Quickly, Servyn! We have to—“ Julan stops at the second inner gate within the tunnel entrance with a distinct red light at the end of it—the true border between Ghostgate and Red Mountain.

“There! A second button—Sheogorath, was a second gate really necessary!?”

 _They must really not want troublesome adventurers coming through here, maybe!_ Julan repeats the process of fitting through the hardly-raised iron grating.

“Come on Servyn, they’re right behind us!”

“I can’t— _some_ of us don’t fit in tight places as well!” Heavily armored footsteps grow closer.

“Stop, pilgrims! It’s dangerous past the gate—“

“SERVYN!”

It took a bit of tearing into his robe, and consequentially a bit of flesh underneath from grazing the bars for him to make it through. _No time to heal them, must run. Guh, and so soon after I got this thing repaired…_

“Pilgrims! Wait—“

“We’re _NOT_ pilgrims!” Julan shouts back at the guard, not once breaking his sprint. Servyn follows, attempting to run as fast as his shorter legs can carry him, though even with heightened speed one obtains in the desperation of running away from authority figures, he still lags considerably behind.

The moment the two cross the threshold between Ghostfence and the ash-ridden wasteland of Red Mountain territory, the clinking footsteps stop. As predicted, the Armigers refuse to step foot past temple grounds.

“If it’s the shrine you wish to visit, please wait until designated Temple escorts return from prayer. They will keep you safe!”

“Er, that’s okay, sera! We’re quite capable of handling ourselves—no need to…uh, come over or wait for us to return! Right Julan?”

With the bulk of his focus dedicated to waiting for the guards to give up and turn around, Servyn doesn’t notice the lack of response from his companion. Sure enough, the Armigers eventually shake their heads and retreat back in the direction of the courtyard, unwilling to risk their own lives to apprehend a pair of foolish travelers. Once they’ve disappeared, Servyn releases a heavy sigh of relief.

“Well! Now that you’ve dragged us all the way out here, what exactly—“

Servyn turns around to face Julan, only to find a frozen-in-place mer staring up at the towering Red Mountain, mesmerized…or petrified? The zeal he so proudly boasted about just a few moments ago seemed completely drained from his unusually pale face.

“Julan?”

Julan stands, both as still and as cold as stone, attention dead set towards the mountain, as if its very presence paralyzed him with fear. A closer look at his face reveals he’s not actually staring _at_ the mountain, but towards some far off world, to…what?

“Are you—“

_….OT…HIM…REVAR…YOU!_

An unknown voice suddenly floods his senses, shattering them with overstimulation. It sounds like it’s trying to be a whisper, but no real whisper could possibly be this loud. It’s intangible yet aggressive, not quite existing in reality and calling from some far away place, as if encompassing his mind. But strangest of all…it’s somewhat familiar.

_HE IS BUT A SERVANT. A DREAMER AMONG THOUSANDS OF NAMELESS AND FACELESS. IT IS YOU I WANT, BUT THIS CANNOT HAPPEN YET. NOT NOW. LEAVE MY WORLD. GET OUT. GET OUT GET OUT—_

“JULAN—“

“GODS, WHAT?” The two writhe in pain, collapsed into the dirt and clutching their skulls as if their life depends on it. A pinkish light flashes suddenly, without warning. In an instant the voice's indescribably words are replaced by a physically louder yet not nearly as booming chatter and footsteps of Ald-ruhn’s temple plaza. The sky was no longer red, the air tasted like a spoonful of ash rather than a metric ton of it—but most importantly, the whispers were gone.

The relief of escape lulled the pair into a kind of peace that distracted them from immediately noticing Julan still held on to a limp Servyn in a tight embrace, crumpled on the ground just as they had been at Red Mountain. Raised eyebrows and annoyed grumbling from confused Temple patrons wondering why partners of multiple kind of unorthodoxy choose to display their affection here and not in Suran remind the two to jolt up off the ground. Servyn stares down Julan with much more scrutiny.

“Sorry. I had to hold on to you to warp us both out. I mean, you wanted to leave too, right?”

He didn’t want to be there in the first place! But it was odd to see the same foolhardy warrior eager to sprint headfirst towards death suddenly fall back. Unless…he heard the voices too?

“Don’t look at me like that, like I’m some coward. I’m not afraid of Red Mountain—nor the creatures that lurk around it, for that matter. It was…something else.”

“Whispers?”

Julan’s eyes widen. “You heard them too…? That’s…well, I hear them every night, in these weird dreams where I’m climbing Red Mountain, and I can’t see—because it’s dark and my eyes are filled with ash from the storm, and all the while these same whispers taunt me. I can’t understand them, not really, but I know they’re saying all kinds of horrible things, because…well, surely even an outlander’s heard of Dagoth Ur. _He’s_ the one who sends people these dreams. I just didn’t expect to see them when I’m awake.”

_The voice mentioned a servant—obviously referring to him. But what does it want with Julan?_

“It called one of us a servant. Was it talking about you? It does kind of sound like—“

“What matters is we’re out of that cursed place, and back in town.” Servyn starts walking with no intent on direction, letting his legs take him wherever they wish while his mind stews over more things it can handle. Footsteps follow close behind him, though he doesn’t acknowledge them.”

“Servyn?”

_Well, I’m back in town, I guess that’s a good thing. But now what? I’m back to where I started! No job, no purpose to follow, and what? Return to the Mages Guild, empty handed and empty-pocketed and try again tomorrow? As if no-one’s going to take one look at my ash and dirt stained clothes and see failure written all over it? They already don’t want me taking up space in one of their rooms—now they’ll definitely kick me out, and nobody will stop them! Might as well pick somewhere in the ash and bury my own grave to save them the trouble!_

“Servyn? Hello?”

_A grave? You? Don’t even kid yourself, thinking you’re worthy of that! Go wander in the ashlands and let your corpse feed a bunch of cliff racers. At least you’d do some good in the world that way._

Before Servyn is able to come up with a quicker and more degrading method of death, he’s abruptly stopped with a tug on his scarf, and is genuinely surprised (yet equally disappointed) that it was Julan staring down at him and not in fact a well armed daedra sent from a benevolent god to take him out in a holy act of mercy.

“Where are we going?”

Servyn blinks a few times. “ _We?_ ”

“You said you’d train me! It’ll do us both good to get our minds off of Red Mountain, though…I guess _right at this moment_ isn’t the best time, considering what just happened. Shall we return to…uh, I assume you have some kind of camp—no, wait, you’re a city dweller. Somewhere to stay, is what I mean.”

For once a tirade of objections flood his mind, rather than a tirade of questions, though it didn’t make it easier to decide exactly what to say first. Julan’s brow furrows, as if he were able to read his mind.

“I’m not insane, you know. What happened on the mountain was an anomaly—I promise I can look out for myself. We can start training tomorrow if that’s what you really want.”

“Julan,” Servyn retorts, nearly pleading in his voice. “This is a big city. There are no doubt hundreds of more qualified warriors here who can train you better than I ever could.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I asked _you_ to train me.” Julan crosses his arms again, wearing just as much stubbornness in his face as he had at Ghostfence.

“Be honest with me!” Now Servyn’s voice is full on pleading. “Did you really ask me to train you because you actually looked at _this_ ,” he gestures to his whole body, “and decide: _Oh yes, this very well built and competent looking mutt of an elf covered in dirt and burn splotches clearly possesses some valuable wisdom and experience!_ Is that what you thought, really?”

Now it’s Julan’s turn to look surprised, though unlike Servyn he responds quickly.

"No, but—"

"Exactly. You picked me because I was the first idiot you saw, who has "lost transient who has nothing better to do" written all over him and knew that the only person you'd be able to convince into helping you evade guards to run into an _active volcano_ —"

“I already told you to stop telling me I think things I've never said! You’re right. You don’t _look_ like much, and you’re an _outlander_. But you killed those three clannfear.”

Servyn attempts to deflect by grumbling it wasn’t much, but Julan continues.

“You got us into the mountain. You summoned that scamp and persuaded it to help us. You turned us completely invisible long enough to get in—just barely, but we still made it. Maybe you _are_ the shortest Dunmer I’ve ever seen, and a bit flabby like some rich pampered city mer, and an n’w—outlander. But you still did all of that despite your shortcomings. You seem to think everyone’s judging you for it—guess what, they _are_. I get it. People judge _me_ for being an ashlander; they call me a dim-witted uncontrollable savage...and you know, sometimes it's hard to be any different from what the world thinks you are. But _you_ didn't call me any of those things. The words they throw at you doesn’t stop _you_ from helping people, so it’s not going to stop _me_ from believing you’d make a great trainer.”

There’s a bench nearby from where they’re standing. Without thinking, Servyn retreats to it, plunking down and hunching down, as if burdened by a great weight. His heart certainly felt heavy with _something_ , but he didn’t know what. Julan joins him, though with arms still crossed and a stiffened back.

“Well? You said you wanted honesty, so you got it. Can we leave now? It’s getting late.”

Servyn shakes his head. There’s no time to stew on things now.

“I’m not actually "rich” or “pampered”, Julan. I don’t have anywhere to go—not really. A friend convinced the Mages Guild here to let me stay with them until I got on my feet or officially joined, but I can’t really say I’ve succeeded at either of those things.”

“Ugh, _mages_. Not you of course, but most mages are insufferable. What about the local tavern? If there’s one good thing about cities, it’s the drink, and I could really use some of that right now! We could stay there, too.”

It didn’t sound like a bad idea, but it also didn’t sound like a good one. What Servyn really wants is work, but his track record with finding it in taverns hasn’t been great so far.

_There’s that one job you should be doing but keep avoiding. Maybe your continued failures in other ventures is a sign._

“Actually, I…do have a job, but it’s not here. I’m supposed to….” He ponders over how much, if at all, he’s allowed to say about it. “Vivec. We need to find a way to get to a city called Vivec.”

“ _Sheogorath_ , Vivec? What business do you have there?”

“To…meet some people, and interview them about…local culture?”

Julan rolls his eyes. “Local culture? In the _cities_? I doubt it’s any different than what you can read about in Imperial propaganda leaflets. Ashlander life is the _true_ “local culture” of Vvardenfell, and _I_ can tell you all about that.”

“It’s not up to me. My boss told me to go to Vivec and meet certain people, so I have to go to Vivec. I just don’t know how.”

An echoing cry—something that had been white noise the whole time yet in their brief moment of silence rings like an answer to his plight at just the right time ignites his memory with realization, and he’s suddenly up and sprinting towards the more open street plaza to get a better look at the silt strider towering in the distance just beside the city border—Julan dutifully following as usual. He roots through his satchel to grasp the still in tact pouch of drakes, still healthily plump.

“You’re really serious about going, then?”

Servyn’s legs carrying him down the road towards the strider without thought answers that question for both of them.


	10. Vivec City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry for the very long chapter again; am trying to write them shorter and less intimidating, but I haven't been very good at that lately...
> 
> Also I am aware the food talk is very prominent here, and want to clarify it is not a running fat joke. I am just very passionate about fantasy cuisine, haha
> 
> Note 2: The silt strider has its own concept page! It's a bit rough but I wanted to show a general idea of what it looks like, you can find it here! https://icicleteeth.tumblr.com/post/620618810258505728/seems-most-of-my-morrowindposting-also-happens-to

The silt strider is _big_. Not the kind of big one expects, even when having a reasonable estimate given how easily it could be seen from afar a ways from the furthest reaches of Ald-ruhn. This strider, on the contrary, is the kind of big one surmises _could_ exist, yet in the end still manages to shatter all sense of reality with just how massive a living creature could be (let alone a docile one. In all likelihood, it could raze half the city with no trouble at all, if it really wanted to.)

Thinking back, the silt strider in Balmora paled in comparison to this one, both in size and grandeur. Its body shines with a lustrous black armor-like carapace that seems to contain streaks of rainbow light when light hits it in just the right places. Its head bears one large central horn curving outward like a scimitar, its central shell is decorated by several red banners bearing the insignia of a beetle, which dance with the howling ash winds, and its six legs dwarf even the tallest city watchtowers in height. Even the huge flight of stairs leading up to the beast’s back hardly makes an impression against it.

“I didn’t know they got _that_ big…” Julan mutters. Servyn approaches the first step up to the landing as if it were a treacherous mountain. “Come on, we have to get to the top before they leave.”

At the end of a climb more perilous than running from the Imperial City Market District to the Waterfront, they stop behind a line of men carrying large crates and cargo onto the strider and into a caved in portion of its shell, disappearing and reappearing from it in a neat line. Once it’s their turn to board, the caravaner crosses his arms, leaving the strange flesh-like and fungus-infested control panel to approach them.

“Oy! Where’s yer cargo? I ain’t paying you lot to deliver air!”

“Oh no, we’re passengers, sera! Are we too late to board?”

In an instant, the Dunmer changes from angry to sheepish. “Ah! My deepest apologies, sera. You’re just in time, for we were just about to depart once the men brought the last of my shipments.”

Julan seems ready to give a word or two, but Servyn beats him to it. “Oh, thank goodness! By any chance, will you be passing through Vivec City?”

“Fifty drakes per passenger…” Servyn mutters once they’re inside the concave entryway leading inside the creature’s body, stuffing the lighter yet still decently filled coin purse back into his satchel. “I didn’t think it’d be that pricey…”

“Don’t look at me. Silt striders are for city people— _I_ prefer guar-back. I mean, have you _seen_ what the caravaners do to control the poor things?”

Even the inner walls, though adorned with red dimly lit lanterns, sport clusters of mushrooms dotting just about every crevice available. Thankfully, it wasn’t _too_ dark for one to miss the hallway opening up to a spacious cavern where large boxes of cargo are set aside to one corner, and the majority of the hollowed-in shell is dedicated to housing patrons. Now, actually walking down this decline was a different matter for an inexperienced Servyn who’d never seen a silt strider up close, let alone experienced wobbling through the uneven jagged surface of its carapace.

“No. I’m just relieved they happened to be heading to Vivec City.”

Carved-in wall alcoves just large enough to fit meager bedding into were all occupied by already-asleep passengers, explaining why the lanterns were so dim.

“What about training?” Julan whispers. “You could teach me some spell stuff before bedtime, right?”

Servyn picks a corner and plops down to the cold hard floor, nestling against the equally uncomfortable walls and resting his arms over his stomach, resounding himself to what little comfort one could muster inside a giant bug. “I don’t want to play “catch and fetch” with fireballs, Julan.”

“What about all the other schools of magic? I’m not dumb, you know. We could practice healing spells, illusion spells, alteration spells…”

“There are other people here.”

“So? They’re asleep. You just don’t want to teach me anything!”

Servyn closes his eyes drowsily. “If you knew that this whole time, why did you ask in the first place?”

“Because you promised! Come on, just one spell. Just a little bit of training, please?”

One eye opens halfway. It felt strange to be _asked_ rather than _ordered_ to do something. Julan once again gives him a look of determined “I won’t let you say no”, yet the inevitable “yes, sera” he knew he’d cave in to giving didn’t quite feel like a “yes, master” kind of acquiescence—rather a “yes, friend” kind, despite not realizing it at the time on account of his general lack of knowledge in what friendship is.

“Alright. Just one,” he grumbles, sitting up and massaging his sore back. “Have you got a scrap of paper and something to write with?”

“No?” Julan looks around and notices a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink sitting atop a crate some ways off and retrieves it, handing them to Servyn.

“”East Empire Company Inventory List”? Julan, I don’t think—“

“It’s paper, _and_ you have something to write with. So, what’s next?”

Arguing was pointless. Flipping the page over to its blank side and lying it somewhat flat against the floor, Servyn ever-so-meticulously weaves the quill to form immaculate daedric symbols, which come together in what looks like a sentence, but to the untrained eye appear as nothing more than ancient hieroglyphics.

“Here. This is the fire spell I used on those clannfear. It’s not as thorough as a spell book by any means, but it should teach you the basics.” Once Julan takes it, Servyn resumes back to curling up on the ground, relieved that he may now attempt to doze off in hope that the scroll will keep Julan busy for a while, though his hopes are almost immediately dashed.

“I can’t cast this. It’s too advanced!”

Servyn curls up tighter, not wanting to give a retort.

“I mean, I was right: you really are some powerful mage if you think _this_ is “just some fire spell”, but perhaps you could write one that’s more fit for a…very adept journeyman?”

“It’s not _just_ about the strength of a spell.” Servyn, once again, is up (though not without obvious grogginess.) “I wrote you a spell I thought you’d like, but the best advice I can give you about magic is to consider _how_ you use it, not its strength or what it does on paper.”

Julan raises an eyebrow, this time with voracious curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”

A drop of excitement similar to what he felt back in the Arcane University with the students lights up in Servyn—a light that even shows a bit in his eyes as he speaks. “Lots of spells do similar things, or can be used for similar purposes; yet some work better than others. Say a big drunken Nord decides it would be very funny to kick dirt on your sleeping mat and toss you around like a sack of ash yams. You _could_ paralyze him and call the guards, but they won’t know he started it, and it’ll look like you attacked first. If instead you strike him with a Burden spell…well! Not only will he not be able to move, but the guards will hear all of the obscenities he shouts at you when they arrive, and know you were the one being attacked.”

Despite the silence and look of shock Julan wears, Servyn continues.

“Oh! Restoration magic isn’t only useful for healing yourself or others. Some days are very bad for begging, and you think “Ah, well I suppose this is day three without anything to eat…” But you know the locals leave poisoned cheese out for vermin, so if you have a Cure Poison spell—“

“Servyn.”

Julan no longer looks curious to learn. Servyn wilts at the mortified expression, fearing he’d said something wrong, or disappointed his companion.

“Er, if you really want to only learn about strong spells, I guess—“

“What are those stories you’re telling? Are they true?”

In the excitement of sharing practical usage of magic, Servyn truly hadn’t realized what he was saying, let alone did he expect him to care about it. Didn’t he insist on learning something? Why would he ask about that, and not about the spells?

With a sigh, Julan sets the paper he’d been so eager to take notes on aside. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but…it just sounds like you’ve had a rough life, is all.”

Nobody had ever told him that. Arvosi didn’t ask when he scooped him up directly off the streets and put him to work immediately afterwards, never mentioning his poor health or difficult life unless it came time to remind him that he in fact _didn’t_ care, and that “a poor upbringing was no excuse to slack off”. His family certainly didn’t mind throwing him into said difficult life to begin with. Acknowledging it with any hint of sympathy was as foreign to him as Vvardenfell itself.

“It…wasn’t all bad. Mournhold always had a big rat problem, so everyone left poison-soaked scuttle—sometimes even Imperial cheeses, if they were rich—to get rid of them. I learned a Cure Poison spell from a book in one of the public libraries and used it to make the cheeses safe to eat…”

“You lived on city streets? All by yourself?”

“Mournhold was huge. There were lots of people.”

“I meant without a family to look after you, and feed you things that weren’t pest traps.”

“It was _good_ cheese! At least, when I got it before the rats… I think they learned I could purify the stuff and would attack me as soon as the spell was cast. The people weren’t wrong—there _were_ lots of rats. And home-guarding nix hounds who thought everything was a rat. I guess I kind of was, now that I think about it.”

Julan joins him a few feet away, laying himself against the carapace and resting his arms behind his head. Something of a forlorn sigh escapes him, and Servyn takes it as a sign he doesn’t want to hear any more and wishes to stop talking—something he’s more than happy to oblige. Eventually, a hushed “I’m sorry you went through all of that,” leaves Julan’s lips, though its intended receiver had long since dozed off into a miraculously dreamless slumber.

Be it intentional or not, the booming sleepy yawn-like cry of the silt strider works wonders as a morning wake up call, as everyone at once opens their eyes and rises from their beds crankily (in Servyn and Julan’s case, rises from the floor), grumbling about the abrupt interruption to their slumber. One traveler—an Argonian seamstress, from the looks of her fine robes and trinkets, produces a redware kettle and cups from her pack, and her companion, an Altmer draped in blue robes channels a fire spell to heat it as the Argonian pours the water. Other passengers shuffle over mumbling sheepishly if they may share in her hearth, of which Servyn doesn’t catch the answer to (though the wide smile and humming from the seamstress indicates what it was) as he prefers to stick to his corner and nibble on his own hackle-lo. A thought crosses his mind, and he digs through his satchel for scrib jerky.

“Some scrib, sera?” He offers it to Julan, who’s busy rubbing his eyes and finishing a heavy yawn. When he turns his attention to Servyn, he looks…sad, though he couldn’t think why, other than disappointment towards not learning anything last night. Nevertheless, he takes the jerky wordlessly and nods, hopefully with indication that he wasn’t _too_ upset with Servyn’s incompetence. After some time, the rhythmic rise and fall with each of the strider’s steps halt in what most brush off as another one of the creature’s breaks from the long journey, until the unmistakable call of the caravaner arrives with a jovial “Aye, we’ve arrived at Vivec City!”

A line forms at the entrance and gradually snakes through, with Servyn at the tail end of it, being too short and too unused to walking on the chitinous ground to have any hope at leaving before anyone else. Julan waits for him at the entrance, chuckling a bit at his friend’s struggle, but having the decency to not call him an outlander for the ten thousandth time.

“You’re not missing much, you know. Vivec’s “city” is about as appealing as a giant pile of guar dung.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad. Now will you stop looking at me like a child just learning to walk? I’m up, see? Let’s go.”

Stepping outside into the bright sunlight of early morning opens up a world more alien than anything Servyn’s seen yet. Indeed, Vivec is a city—a sprawling miles-long coastal city that stretches so far back into the Inner Sea that even the miniscule towers obscured by the foggy distant horizon seemed to never end. Most striking of all was the fact that the city didn’t actually exist on land—nor at sea, for that matter, despite such perfectly carved dome-roofed cantons erecting from the ocean. These buildings seemed to float _on_ the water rather than stand within it, as if the entire sprawling metropolis itself were levitating.

“This place…it’s—“

“Awful, I know. Do you know where we need to go?”

“Erm…” Servyn rummages through his belongings for the sweat-stained parchment Caius gave him. According to his directions, they’re looking for three people spread across Vivec’s Foreign Quarter, St. Olms Canton, and Temple Canton. The man was even generous enough to include a map of the city, which reveals they’re actually quite close to the Foreign Quarter.

“That one,” Servyn points to the nearest canton to the front of the city. “That’s the Foreign Quarter, I think. My boss said we ought to ask around for an Argonian named Huleeya, and the best place to do so is at a tavern called the Black Shalk Cornerclub.”

“Fine. Sounds easy enough.”

For a floating city in which one would expect to have issues accommodating large crowds…it seemed to be both uncomfortably large and suffocating in density. The cantons are by no means inadequate, with spacious ever-spanning streets that curve around in a square, with some streets inclining several meters up that lead from the Lower to Upper Waistworks, and even higher than that to the central Plaza. However, though the streets are impressively long and wide, the sheer volume of people darting near shoulder-to-shoulder with the speed and carelessness of important people with important places to be could fool one into thinking even a city as massive as Vivec were far too small.

“No, I don’t know why so many people choose to live here,” Julan grumbles under his breath as the two duck through a crowd of woodworkers carrying long wooden planks. Now at the foot of the pathway ascending to the second story, they trudge up the smooth stairless road, Servyn huffing and puffing and lagging significantly behind Julan. It takes quite a few moments for him to catch up, once the taller mer reaches the top.

“We’d have… _huff_ …been better off… _huff_ …levitating up instead of… _this_!”

“Pretty sure we’d get gawked at.”

Servyn leans against a wall to bring a glowing blue palm to his chest, breath stabilizing as the Restore Fatigue spell kicks in. “Surely levitation magic isn’t so complex and rare that it would turn many heads.”

“Bah, there you go with that humble-bragging again. Most people aren’t powerful wizards like you, you know.”

 _Powerful? Arvosi used to scold him profusely when he was first learning levitation spells. Called him a useless s’wit for “struggling with such amateur magic”._ In any case, the entrance to the Upper Waistworks halls await. Not a bad place to start, wedged in between the Lower Waistworks and Plaza.

At first, the interior seems much too cramped, as they enter what appears to be a system of long narrow hallways just barely containing large clusters of people no different than the streets. Everyone either pushes their way to get out, or funnel into the larger hallway leading to the central area of the canton. As small sea slaughterfish follow with their schools, the pair joins the crowds heading inward. When they near the center, Servyn perks up.

“Julan! Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” he asks, nearly shouting to be heard through the cacophony of chatter that inevitably comes with large gatherings.

“Coffee! Fresh coffee!”

“What?”

Stepping into the threshold of the main marketplace feels like stepping into an entirely new realm. Grand merchant stalls of all walks of Tamriel fill the plaza with bustling life, exotic music, and otherworldly scents. Bosmeri butchers sing of "fine gen-u-ine swine!" whilst chopping up other hard to come by meats such as chicken, elk, and even bear. Orcish clothiers and blacksmiths set up near the butchers boast that "if you seek the hides of these mighty animals, come view the finest selection in all of Vvardenfell!" A Saxhleel hut produces the bulk of the music with large wood-carved instruments that share the likeness of fish and wamasu, coupled with wind chimes shaped like hackwings. A Hammerfell pottery shop glistens brightest of all with bejeweled pitchers, ornate kitchenware, and studded leather armors. The questions wasn't so much "what should we consider visiting?" as it was "where should we start?"

At the coffee, Servyn decides, darting over to a Bosmer's modest table of coffee grounds and empty cups, with a small stove boiling water beside him.

“A coin fer a cup, sera. If ya want to take it home, it’ll cost ya extra.”

“Oh…will ten drakes do?” At the Bosmer’s nod, Servyn beams and turns to Julan, his expression carrying the wordless question of “would you like one too?”—the response to which is a frown.

“It’s too hot to drink right now; may we stop for a bit once it’s cooled? Or maybe…hum. Do you think a weak frost spell to the cup’s surface is too much?”

Julan rolls his eyes. There aren’t very many spots in the crowded plaza one can stand comfortably in, let alone sit down. “I guess we can stand somewhere if you want, but shouldn’t we ask around for that tavern you mentioned?”

“Er, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Ack, maybe buying the cup was a bad idea—it wont fit in my satchel! Will you look out for a clothier? Perhaps we ought to invest in a larger pack, given all the adventuring…”

“The only “adventuring” we’ve done is travel from one unthreatening city—by silt strider—to another. I think we’re fine.”

“Well, surely there’s more where that came from, since you’re so insistent on training. If you’re going to stick around for a while, we might as well be able to carry more—ah! Are those Wayrest dough knots!?” Grabbing his friend’s arm, Servyn leads them both to a baker’s stall, where the portly Breton shop owner removes a tray of sesame seed brioche buns from her oven. “Yessir, baked ‘em this morning!”

The two eye the pastries intently—Servyn’s eyes wide with craving and a bit of drool peeking from his lips, and Julan with…equally wide eyes, though in horror.

“Why is the goopy coating so…unnaturally pink—“

“A half dozen, please!”

Before long, they’re back to weaving through other shop-goers as if they were obstacles in a labyrinth. Neither speak for a while, nor does one move with any sense of direction or idea of where to go. Julan seems to be leading for now, though he certainly didn’t want to, nor did he feel he should.

“Right, so why are we here again?” Julan shouts, sidestepping a woman’s pack rat that nearly runs into him whilst trying to keep up with its master.

“We’re loofin’ for th’ taf’n!” Servyn hadn’t quite been able to stop himself from stuffing a dough knot (possibly two) into his mouth the moment he purchased the basket of six…and the two slices of West Weald strawberry cake…and the bundled cloth of moon sugar butter cookies. Julan scowls, prompting him to retrieve a knot and present it to him as a peace offering. He doesn’t take it.

“I don’t think we’re going to find any taverns in this marketplace. Best look in the hallways—see, there’s one over there. Let’s try that way!”

Julan finds out after a few moments of waiting for affirmation and receiving nothing that Servyn’s no longer by his side, and is instead gawking at a Nordic grocer stall. He so badly wants to burst into a tirade, but if he were being honest, he never thought he’d see the shorter Dunmer look so happy, especially if what he revealed about his past was at all accurate. He couldn’t bring himself to be _too_ mad.

“Serv—“

“It’s milk, Julan! Have you ever tried some? It wasn’t very easy to find in the mainland, so it must be even rarer here. Ah, could you hold my coffee for a moment?”

Servyn picks up an opaque white bottle with both hands, gently, to have a closer look. “Goodness! This isn’t just any milk either—sera, I’ll take two bottles, thank you! Look!” He hands Julan a bottle, with a Nordic etching of a highland cow and the words “Sigvild Of Rorikstead Farms” printed on the glass. “This stuff is the best! It’s milk from these creatures they raise in Skyrim called cows. Nords sweeten theirs with honey, and pack the bottles together with frost salts in these special containers that keep them fresh and cold. It’s…well, you have to try it!” Without hesitation, Servyn removes the corkscrew from his own and drinks greedily, not daring to pause and catch his breath, for it would mean one second he weren’t enjoying a rich sugary delicacy. One sorely missed upside to living in the Imperial City was the abundance of food from every province in Tamriel, and sweet things were sadly all too hard to come by in Morrowind.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve and trying (but failing) to suppress a belch, he looks to a very unenthused Julan, who holds a still-full bottle he has no intention of opening. “I thought we came here for a job. Not to buy a bunch of things we don’t need.”

His ears droop just a bit. “W-well, who says we can’t look around and enjoy things? It’s not urgent work, as far as I was told.”

“Shouldn’t we save our money for more important matters?”

Servyn raises a wanting hand towards his coffee, and takes to sipping it timidly once his friend graciously hands it over.

“I’ve been using _my_ drakes, thank you very much,” he finally mutters. _No, they’re not yours. They’re Il-Tei’s drakes. The ones she probably trusted you’d use for emergencies, yet here you are._

“Well,” Julan starts, offering the bottle back, “I don’t want this, and I frankly don’t care for shopping around like a city mer. It’s honestly horrendous, seeing my homeland reduced to nothing more than a place for outlanders to build self-flagellating ugly domes on top of its ravaged soil to peddle their frivolous trinkets and treats that nobody needs!”

“That’s...not very nice…” Servyn mutters in a weak attempt to reply, cradling the second milk bottle like a precious parcel. “Not everyone’s from here _exactly_ , but they’re not all bad. _No, that doesn’t include you, Fetcher. You’re one of the bad ones._

“Oh, outlanders “not being from here” isn’t an inherent problem. They could’ve _asked_ to stay here, but they didn’t! They pillaged and conquered; took over and forced the true people of Morrowind out to live in the most dangerous parts of wilderness—and nobody cares!”

“Or nobody _knows_? _I_ certainly don’t know what you’re talking about!”

With eyes and mouth wide open, Julan readies his most vicious comeback, but suddenly wilts into terror as a shadow engulfs both him and Servyn, who whips around the face the object of their fears: a massively tall and heavily armored guard clad in gold and blue, their face hidden underneath an impressive red-crested helmet.

“Is there a problem here?” they growl in a deep husky voice.

Ordinator. This must be an Ordinator—“gold hat”, as Il-Tei called them. What did she instruct to say around them again?

“T-three blessings, sera!” he squeaks. “We’re fine, just…um, debating on which loaf of bread to buy at the Dunmeri bakery, nothing more!” Julan nods in agreement, but lights up and decides to seize the reigns of the conversation, so to speak.

“See, we were discussing whether this _outlander_ bread would be more delicious than bread from a local tavern—I know _some_ are inclined to think it’d be the westerner’s loaves, but one time I bought from a place that used to soak their dough in matze, and I haven’t seen any other baker do that since! Servyn, maybe we ought to find our way to a _tavern_ , eh?”

The Ordinator doesn’t move, though underneath the mask raises an eyebrow.

“What? Julan, I don’t know where—“

“Well that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He turns to the Ordinator. “We’re new to the city, serjo. Would you happen to have directions? I’ve heard whispers of a Black Shalk Cornerclub somewhere in the Foreign Quarter, but you see…”

Now the Ordinator shifts a bit. On instinct, Servyn gravitates towards the nearest thing to hide behind (Julan, in this case) and brace for an incoming beating, be it of the physical or emotional sort.

“Fine. But just know we’re watching you, scum.”

“See? That wasn’t so bad—ack!”

As Julan turns around to face his companion, he realizes just how close his friend stuck to him just a second too late, colliding with and knocking Servyn to the ground by accident.

“Sorry! Why are you hiding right behind me?”

Though Servyn gets up from the ground without complaints, his eyes keep glued to it.

“I don’t like guards.”

“I don’t think anyone does…?”

Before any further questions, Servyn steps past Julan to behold the guarskin banner with a jet-black shalk illustrated above fine print letters spelling “Black Shalk Cornerclub”. “What matters is we’re here. Would you mind asking the barkeep about a “Huleeya”?”

“Well,” Julan replies the moment he opens the door to the tavern, “I found him. I think.”

He points to a figure stood against the back hallway wall leading to the inn rooms: a well built Argonian with a green crest and black leather armor. His sickle eyes glare at a belligerent trio of Dunmer sat at the front counter.

“Just because he’s an Argonian, doesn’t mean—“

It was too late. Julan was already halfway across the lobby approaching the Argonian, who trains his glare towards him in return. Panicking, Servyn follows to try to stop him, though reaches his friend just in time to hear him ask “Are you Huleeya?”

The Argonian’s wrinkled snout and harsh eyes soften a bit. “It is not like the Dunmer, to address us by our name rather than an uncharitable expletive.”

“Hm. That’s unfortunate. But you _are_ Huleeya, right?”

“Yesss…”

The hissing isn’t so much an indication of annoyance—quite the opposite, for he seemed quite jolly to share in polite conversation.

“To what do we owe this civil company the Dunmer graciously shares with us?”

“Oh. Not me, necessarily. Servyn?”

Julan turns to Servyn, which also causes Huleeya to do the same. He, in response, shrinks to his towering presence, digging through his satchel for Caius’s instructions.

“Ahem, well… fifty units of raw ebony, twenty kitchen sets of redware—what?” In his hand is the crumpled parchment of East Empire Company Inventory List, the one he’d scrawled the fire spell on the night before. Blushing at the Argonian’s growing suspicion, he stuffs it back and fishes out the other sheet of paper buried inside—the correct one.

“Erm, greetings, sera! We’ve come to find you on behalf of Caius Cosades. According to him, you have valuable information on a “Nerevarine cult” that he’s most interested in acquiring.”

Huleeya settles his wariness, though Julan adopts some of his own all too suddenly at the mention of a Nerevarine cult. Servyn doesn’t notice this.

“Ah, our friend Caius. Yes, we know what he wants, and we have no qualms giving it to him. However, this precious thing he desires is precious for a reason—it is a hunted idea, one could say. It is not safe to discuss here, but it will most certainly be safe at my friend’s book shop.”

“Great! Shall we depart, then?”

The Argonian shakes his head with a hiss—this time out of annoyance.

“We have wished to leave for quite some time now, but those troublesome fools won’t allow it. The local Dunmer do not take kindly to my kin, and are not shy of making this known. We expect an altercation to break loose, lest they be convinced to let us to leave. Mind, it is not fear of conflict that stops us—we have sworn an oath to order and diplomacy, you see.”

“I…see?” he replies despite not understanding anything. The Argonian sighs.

“We know of the information Caius seeks, but cannot give it to you here. It must persuade the trio to leave us be, or prepare for a fight. This is no easy task—many Dunmer despise my kind, and those who associate with us. But these are the circumstances.”

Well, _now_ he understands. Unfortunately. He turns to Julan, who’s cracking his knuckles.

“Oho, so it’s a fight they want, eh? Always wanted to show a city dweller what an ashlander can—”

“N-now hold on!” Servyn jumps in font of Julan _._ “We should maybe… _not_ give any guards a reason to arrest us! I’ll handle this without violence, okay?”

Julan crosses his arms and pouts, though retreats back to Huleeya. Bracing himself, Servyn puffs his chest up, straightens his back to appear as tall as his meager height allows, and saunters up to the bar counter wearing a grin he hopes appears confident, but is actually noticeably anxiety-ridden. The innkeeper glances at him and eyes the hired mercenaries leaned against the back lobby wall, expecting to call for their service when something inevitably goes awry.

“Wealth and prosperity, serjo! Might I join the three of you for an afternoon of merriment?” He plops himself on the empty stool next to them anyway, and eagerly awaits for a response.

The Dunmer closest to the barkeeper whispers something to him, and at once retrieves a black bottle from behind the counter. The mer slides it over to Servyn.

“A-ah, no thank you! I’ve already had a full bottle of milk today, and I’m waiting a bit before drinking the second. A mug of alcohol on top of that would just be too much, even for me!” He pats his belly in jest, hoping self-degrading humor helps ease the tension between the three glowering Dunmer turned to him.

Neither cracks so much as a chuckle. “It’s _rat poison_ , outlander. Or are you too stupid to take the hint?”

Servyn ends up being the one to chuckle, though not out of amusement. “I-I’m no outlander! I’m from Morrowind, just like all of you! I’ve…er, been around the foyada, as they say. Given my fair share of Three Blessings far and wide, you know…”

“Oh shut up, mutt,” one growls. In an instant, Servyn's ears droop to their lowest at that word. The supposed leader takes a swig from his tankard and slams it on the counter.

“You’re no Dunmer. Just an abomination of the lesser races; and like all the rest, you toil and fumble to insert yourselves into _our_ groups where you don’t belong, trying to be one of us. You’re _not_. You never _will_ be. Just like that slimy lizard.”

A fire ignites in Servyn’s chest—not for anything the mer said about _him_ , but for his words regarding Argonians. Those with a keen eye may have seen his balled up fist spark with static for a split second. Thankfully nobody in a position to stop him had such keen eye, but it was his keen senses that sheathed it in the end, and instead produce a new greenish light only he could see.

“W-well, maybe you’re right about that, but there’s no need for hostility! Be it men, mer, beast…or mutt…we’re all partial to some friendly banter, eh?” He pats the leader on the shoulder as a friendly gesture, and, as expected, is shoved to the floor immediately. _That’s okay_ , he thinks as the trio laughs at the instinctual whimper he can’t help emit upon the abrupt meeting of skull to stone flooring. _I think I got him. It should work any time now._

Indeed, something shifts in the leader’s demeanor. His expression softens, no longer twisted in a sickening smirk at Servyn's misery.

“Right then…” he tries, wobbling off the ground a second time today, “I’d love to stay and chat much longer, but my colleague and I have important places to be. Word around the canton is Argonians tend to run into trouble with surly folks…here’s hoping we are lucky enough to avoid such headaches!”

The two lackey Dunmer look to their leader, eager for the mer to give the mutt an even harsher beating for his insolence. Instead, the leader scoffs and returns to his drink at the counter. “Yeah, they do. Suppose they can’t help being filthy lizards, in the end. If you want to ally yourself with disgusting creatures like that, then you’d best get out of my face, runt.”

“All I did was Charm him; he’ll be back to normal soon enough,” Servyn later states whilst nursing his head, Julan at his side in case his friend needed something to collapse onto, as they follow in the shadow of the tall Argonian hissing underneath his breath.

“Still. That fetcher had no business shoving you like that. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah.” Huleeya’s hissing worries him deeply. Is he disappointed the situation was handled with magic, and planning to report him to an Ordinator for assault?

“Um, Huleeya…”

“We are not angry at you, Dunmer. It is most unfortunate that he should endure those troublesome fools’ prejudice. So close were we, to breaking our oath to slay them right then and there.”

 _Slay? Did he say slay?_ Before Servyn decides whether or not he wants to ask questions, the Argonian hushes him once more.

“We shall make our way to my friend’s store. It is safe to speak there, and near here, but the Waistworks are vast. Stay close, sera.”

By the time they’d managed to worm their way out of the book shop owner’s relentless sales pitches nearly unscathed (they only bought three books, thank you very much), returned to the Black Shalk Cornerclub to reserve two beds for the night per Huleeya informing them that the St. Olms canton they’re headed to next is both “very far away” and “doesn’t have any inns, so it would be wise to come back to the Foreign Quarter for lodging” and finally endured the long journey on foot across several other cantons because _of course none of the city’s many gondoliers actually travel directly to St. Olms, why would they when it seems every god out there so dearly enjoys watching him suffer_ —they make their way into its Waistworks just as the sun begins its slow descent in the late afternoon sky. They leave its inviting warmth to brace for the cold darkness awaiting them.

“I hate this city. I really do. First the horrible shopping centers, and now we’re supposed to plunge into a—”

“Shush,” Servyn cuts in with a pleading whisper. “Keep your voice down, Julan! The glass merchant said Addhiranirr is a very secretive woman, and to not divulge her hiding place to anyone for any reason—not even by accident.”

“Okay, but a sewer. We’re going to wade through a _sewer_ , to find a Khajiit with supposedly valuable information—what kind job is this anyway? I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal.”

“It’s perfectly law-abiding and normal.” _I think. I did get it from a skooma-addled old man… but he said he’s with the Empire! Is anything sanctioned by the Empire actually illegal?_

The central plaza of the St. Olms Waistworks isn’t nearly as spacious or crowded as the Foreign Quarter, and most shoppers seemed to partake in business out of necessity rather than pleasure, which at least made it easier to weave through people and search for the hallway leading down to the Canalworks. However, before they’re able to slip through to the descending staircase—

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Might I have but a moment of your time?”

Julan doesn’t stop, but Servyn does, on instinct of doing what he is told. A large Imperial in decadent robes stands before him, wearing a face of suspicion disguised as fake friendliness. “I’m on the lookout for my friend Addhiranirr—a sweet Khajiiti woman; we’ve scheduled to have a talk, you see.”

Servyn gulps. _Obviously don’t tell him! The merchant said to keep her hiding place a secret! But this man looks important and official—what if he sees right through me and calls the guards if I lie to him?_

“Um…” he begins.

“A Khajiiti woman you say? Saw her take a gondola to the mainland on the way here, sera.”

_Julan!_

“Really? You’re certain?”

“Oh yes,” he drawls, “she seemed to be in a hurry too. You’d have to leave right this second, and move quickly, if you’re to catch her.”

The Imperial gives a gracious nod as he bolts towards the exit hallway with a speed Servyn never thought he’d ever see such a hefty man achieve.

“Tax collector. I’ve seen them around Vos sometimes, shaking down even the poorest most destitute beggar for loose change. Wicked ogrims, all of them.”

“Hold on. That was a _tax collector_? Isn’t it a crime to evade—“

“ _Oh no_ , your poor Emperor won’t be able to participate in his weekly Fredas night game of Colonizers and Aboriginals without that tax money! So sad. Can we get the sewer diving over with now?”

Servyn nods. All he can really do is nod and lead the way to the Canalworks. Julan trudges down the stairs a ways behind Servyn, though not out of trouble to keep up. Only once they reach the trap door leading down to the sewers does he steps in front of the shorter mer.

“Wait. No telling what’s down there—best let me go first.” He draws his chitin sword—the one haphazardly repaired and stripped together by the Ghostgate blacksmith who clearly didn’t care whether or not it’d actually be useable.

“Are you sure…?”

“It’s fine!” Julan responds, no more than an echo from below, as he’d began descending the rickety ladder into the noxious depths. “Can’t have you causing explosions in such a small tunnel—gods, it really _is_ foul down here! Hurry up, so we can leave as soon as possible!”

Sighing, Servyn follows suit, casting a strong Night Eye spell with one hand whilst the other clings to the cold metal grating for dear life. Once fully inside ( _Yipe, he wasn’t kidding about the smell!_ ) he hops to the floor with an echoing thud.

“Shame the merchant didn’t know exactly where in the sewers Addhiraniir is, otherwise this would be much—Julan!”

“What?” he asks, stepping down from the stone edge and onto the water’s surface thinking he’d just stepped off a perfectly normal ledge. He turns around to face Servyn, whose right hand dispels a violet aura. “Everything alright?”

“You were about to fall into the sewer water! You're fine now, b-but please stay close; I cast Night Eye some moments ago, so I’ll lead us through from now on.”

“Night Eye?”

“It lets me see in complete darkness.”

“And…that purple light?”

“Waterwalking. Surely that one’s self explana—“

“You’ve got to teach me those spells when we’re done with all of this! Training, remember?”

“…Yes. I remember.” How could he not remember, with how often he was reminded about it? In any case, a sewer wasn’t going to explore itself no matter how much he hoped and prayed it to, so he resolves himself to examining the immediate surroundings.

“Hello?”

“Lo…lo…lo…” the empty cavern calls back, with no more response than distant rat paws scuttling away from them and…a very loud hiss followed by an even louder harsh voice.

“Hissss…who lurks in these secret shadows? Go away!”

So suddenly does a pair of glowing yellow eyes appear from seemingly out of nowhere (even with the enhanced lighting conditions Night Eye allows), that Servyn can’t help but yelp and leap back—so far back that he falls right into the murky sludge water just a few feet away from where Julan stands atop the very same surface (though not unbothered, worrying both for his friend and of the eyes that in all likelihood belongs to a foe rather than a friend.)

“Two Dunmer slither down here…for what purpose, hm? Do they stomp about as simple passerbys, or as Imperial dogs, with their white-gold leashes held down by Empire boots? Addhiraniir thinks the latter, for no-one chooses to brave the city’s rotten intestines for fun. Oh! The Dunmer should not like what they’ve stepped into, no they shall not!”

Julan draws his sword, hopping off the water and onto the pavement. Not a moment too soon, Servyn remerges from a slime worse than swamp gunk, shouting “Wait, wait!” scrambling like a drowned scrib up the ledge and onto solid ground.

“Y-you’re Addhiraniir? We’ve been looking for you!”

“Oh, she wagers the Dunmer have! They shall only find the tip of her dagger, if they try to—“

“Hold on! We’re not your enemy—I was sent to find you, by Caius! You know eachother, right?”

The Khajiit sheathes her weapon, though her ears remain flattened with suspicion. “Yes, Caius is a friend to Addhiraniir. But for what reason does Caius send complete strangers to her?”

On the one hand, it was quite fortunate that the two decided to leave all of their belongings back at the Cornerclub, as it seemed unwise to bring anything valuable into a sewer. On the other hand…without Caius’s notes, Servyn wasn’t sure what to tell her.

“Caius wants to know about a cult. Er…I don’t have the exact details with me, but he said it was a group that terrorizes everyone in Vvardenfell; that everyone knows _of_ it, but nobody knows anything _about_ it—except according to him, you might know. That’s why we’re here.”

The Khajiit hardly needed to ponder on it to realize what he was referring to. “Yes, it is true—she knows about this cult, and she has the information Caius wants. She may divulge her forbidden secrets to the Dunmer, if her paws weren’t tied up with a small matter right now, whose name is Duvianus Platorius…a very portly wicked Imperial—“

“The tax collector?” Julan finally cuts in, sword still drawn,

“Yes. Stupid, stupid tax collector who wishes to interfere in her business! If the Dunmer should find a way to rid Addhiraniir of her troubles…”

“Already taken care of. We told that s’wit you were bound for the mainland, and he took off right away.”

Addhiraniir, no longer hunched over with fur standing up, paw fully leaving the hilt of her dagger, grins a toothy smile and purrs with her words. “Very well, good friends. Caius should like to hear what she has to say about the Sixth House, yes indeed!”

Were it not for the fact that the Cornerclub so graciously happened to have a small bathhouse in its basement, Servyn might have returned to the sewers after bidding Addhiraniir farewell, surrendering himself as no longer a Dunmer, but simply as another dollop of slime amidst the vast sea of sewer muck—thankfully (or not, he still hasn’t decided which yet) Julan wasn’t about to let him “return to his people, where he belongs”, and managed to drag him kicking and screaming out of the soggy depths and all the way back to the Foreign Quarter's signature tavern, though not without complaints about the shorter mer’s stench. In the end, the strength of said foul smell proved to be useful, as the first thing the innkeeper blurted once Julan finally wrangled his friend into coming inside was to wash up in the downstairs bathhouse at once, or by Vivec the Ordinators shall be called upon to throw him out.

Now, undressed and completely submerged underwater (under the effects of a Waterbreathing spell, so physically speaking he was perfectly alright), Servyn lies on his back, eyes closed in not-quite-contentment. They only open upon something rectangular and solid splashing from above and onto his face, which upon jolting up from this sudden assault, he just as quickly retreats back down to find Julan dipping into the second bathing hole across from him, thankfully hidden by excessive steam (for the most part).

“Are you always this jumpy about being unclothed? It’s not uncommon to bathe in the groups in ashlander tribes.”

“Well, I guess we dirty outlanders just aren’t quite _cultured_ in that way!” Servyn huffs, resurfacing with his back turned, facing away from Julan.

“Yeah, you _are_ dirty. I don’t even want to guess what that sludge you fell into actually was.”

Servyn growls, not wanting to think about it either. He retrieves the object Julan threw at him, producing a light purple hunk of…something.

“The innkeeper said it’s some western soap. Called it “lavender”, I think. It certainly smells nicer than the sload soap they peddle in Vos.”

Right. Either way, he was more grateful than Julan probably was to stop stinking like a heinous cocktail of rotting carcass and excrement. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen into the wrong parts of a sewer (nor would it probably be the last), but having soap for once certainly made this particular incident better than the others. He might not even have to discard his dress! It lies in a pile next to him, also submerged, though the water on its own didn’t seem to clean it all that well. Much to his relief, however, the soap does.

“So, this Caius man you’re working for…”

Servyn flinches, though tries to remain calm. “What about him?”

“Well, I looked at the notes those two gave you—“

“What!?” Now Servyn’s completely turned around, dropping the bar of soap. “You shouldn’t be peeking at others’ private notes!”

“Tell me, Servyn,” he begins, ignoring the scolding, “Why in Oblivion does this Caius man want to know about the Sixth House and Nerevarine Cult? Those things shouldn’t be spoken about by…well, I don’t know if this man is an outlander like you, but he doesn’t _sound_ like a native, so he shouldn’t know about them.”

“Gods, Julan!” He wants to sink back into the water and never come out…but then he wouldn’t be able to beg the warrior to stop.

“Who _is_ Caius, anyway?”

“I can’t say—he’s a secretive man.”

“Oh, like how the Khajiit _smuggler_ was also secretive?”

“Julan, I can’t—listen, all you need to know about him is he’s a _client_ , he _said_ he’d pay me to gather this information, and that he has more _work_ for us after we’re finished up here.”

“ _Us_? I said it before, but I really don’t want to be involved in anything illegal.”

“It’s not illegal, and _you’re_ the one who insists we’re an “us” because you still want me to train you!”

“Yeah, I do.” The two fall silent for a bit, with an atmosphere between them somehow heavier than the dense steam.

“Listen,” Servyn finally sighs, “after the washing up, I’ll start on some instructional scrolls for Waterwalking and Night Eye. Maybe even finish one tonight, but no promises. You still want to learn those spells, right?”

Julan perks up, just a little bit. “What other spells can you teach? I’m strongest in the school of Destruction, and can already cast teleportation spells, and—“

“Now just a minute, these instructions take time to write…one at a time, okay?”

“Fine. Toss me that piece of cloth, would you?” He points to a blue towel hanging on the wall near Servyn’s bathing hole. He obeys beyond expectations and maneuvers the cloth to him with Telekinesis, and cuts in before the words of his wide-eyed friend leaves his lips: “Yes, I can teach you that too.”

“Well, I for one feel refreshed and ready to hit the wickwheat early!” Julan enters the bedroom in fresh spare clothes they’d bought on the way back to the Cornerclub. His old ones along with Servyn’s dress were hung up to dry in the basement—something that didn’t bother him in the slightest, though it most certainly bothered Servyn, who trudged behind in a spare shirt and pants Julan all but forced him to buy when it was clear the mer would need to wear something that wasn’t completely soiled in rancid waste. He almost preferred it over this current attire—the dress was at least baggy enough to somewhat hide his pudgy form and skinny arms and legs that lacked any sign of muscle definition. The thin shirt and pants only exposed these features, putting them clear on display for everyone to gawk at.

“You’re going to write the scrolls now, right? You promised, remember?”

“Yes, Julan…” He doesn’t have the energy to say something snarky in return, and resigns himself to the wooden desk against the left-side wall, which conveniently already had a stack of blank parchment, an inkwell, and a perfectly pristine quill. Whether or not it was complimentary to the room…he didn’t care to ask.

“Hey, are you alright?”

He dips the quill into the ink—turning around to face Julan was yet another thing he didn’t have the energy to do.

“I’m fine, just tired and a bit peckish. Starving, actually; though nothing a bit of supper can’t fix…” He reaches for the bundle of cloth lying at the foot of the desk with his other belongings, tears its string open, and shovels a handful moon sugar butter cookies into his mouth with one hand and weaves the first mark onto paper with the other. “I’ll haf your scrow don’f tonight. Jus waif a bit.”

Servyn doesn’t see it since his attention is focused solely on writing, but Julan frowns—not an angry frown, but a concerned one. The click of the door following soon afterwards also goes unnoticed, as he finishes a single line of daedric letters—the first out of goodness knows how many were left. It never was the easiest language to put down on paper.

For a while, the room is silent, save for the muffled distant chatter of gambling games and the soft scratch of quill against paper. The quiet air was so easy to get lost in, that when it suddenly breaks with the sudden clunk of glass on wood, Servyn nearly falls backwards in his chair—in fact, we would’ve done just that, had Julan not been there to stabilize it. Glancing to the source of the sound, Servyn discovers it to be…a plate. It contains two of what looks like some kind of sandwich, though instead of bread the outer wrapping is a mixture of layers: scathercraw, hackle-lo, and thin-cut guar ham forming the outer shell, containing a filling of scrambled kwama egg and marshmerrow.

“I usually cook the kwama egg myself, but the damned innkeeper wouldn’t let me use his fire spit.”

Servyn blinks. When it’s apparent he can’t offer any words, Julan continues.

“ _Dinner_ , Servyn. A late one, but anything is better than nothing—by the way, I used some of your drakes for the ingredients. Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t object, but he also doesn’t respond.

“I don’t know what all that weird stuff you ate was, but my mother always said “A strong boy needs his greens and leans”—leans meaning the good cuts of guar meat that isn't pure fat, and greens meaning vegetables.”

“We’re not _boys_ , Julan. We’re grown mer,” Servyn grumbles, reaching for another cookie.

“Sweets aren’t supper! Sheogorath, it may not be some fancy dish made by some famous city chef, but it’s a good recipe my mother taught me. Ashlander foods are simple but filling, and I thought an actual meal would help you feel better. If you really don’t want it—“

“I-I’ll eat it! Um…” before he could figure out how to accept such kindness, Julan nods with an affirmative “Hm” and retreats to one of the two beds, settling underneath the blanket and propping a book against his curled in legs, digging into his own food.

Servyn doesn’t give in at first. He resumes carefully lettering daedric characters for a while; not realizing that at some point his left hand leaves the paper to grasp a wrap. Nor still, does he realize when less writing was getting done, as his right hand no longer held a quill—one cannot easily hold two wraps with only one hand, after all. It is only until he nearly gobbles up the inkwell after reaching for a third wrap that didn’t exist does Servyn realize hardly any progress was made on his work…which is now sprinkled with crumbs.

He _should_ feel mortifying shame, but instead he felt…whole. And a bit warm, despite the cool air temperatures of the stone walls further exacerbated by his still-damp hair. This and the sudden drowsiness one expects after a large meal (though he sorely mistakes this and the unknown warmth as possibly coming down with something) convinces Servyn to set the quill down for the night and crawls into the unoccupied bed across from Julan, who gives no more than a glance from his book, a soft upturn of his lips obscured behind the pages. The parchment of instructions for Waterwalking lie half-finished on the desk, and both know this—though there are no objections raised against the shorter mer curling up into the blankets with finality and dozing off with a gentle rise and fall of the sheets, signifying a deep slumber that, for the second night in a row, endures uninterrupted by disturbing dreams.


	11. Saint Nerevar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, very sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Am also updating some of the tags and rating from here on out. Thanks for sticking by!

“Come on…can’t we go yet?” Julan taps an impatient foot on the ground, arms crossed and hunched over in boredom on the stone bench, grimacing as his friend sits hunched over in a similar manner; though occupied with blowing on a steaming cup he so closely holds up to his lips.

“It’s too hot to drink… these things take time to cool off, you know.” Servyn blows once more, poking his tongue out to taste it—the resulting sting of burning liquid implores him to resume blowing.

“If I knew this “coffee” was nothing more than glorified boiled bean water, I’d have stopped you from buying it, given how much you paid for it.”

Another blow, another taste, another sting. Servyn sighs. “Coffee doesn’t grow naturally here—it has to be imported. I think that’s why it’s expensive.”

“Hmph. _Imports_. Damn near half of Vvardenfell is _imported_ by this point.”

That last statement is muttered, with a trace of venom lingering in its words, bringing with it an abrupt end to their banter and a long spell of silence. This silence wasn’t _uncomfortable_ —but it wasn’t _comfortable_ either. Servyn darts his gaze about for something to start a conversation on, though he can’t help but rest his attention on the grand dome…caste? It stands taller than any canton in the city, with a grand ascending stairway that looked as if it could span a few hundred feet, surrounded on both sides with (decorative?) waterfalls flowing from several parts of its numerous levels. Its grandeur of both size and presentation wasn’t modest, by any means.

“That big tower is certainly…impressive. Do you think a king lives in there?”

Julan’s mood sours at the acknowledgement of said tower.

“A king? Ha! _That_ there is the ugliest wart blemishing the face of Vvardenfell’s holy lands: Vivec’s temple!”

“Julan!” Servyn hushes, desperately wanting to bring shut the taller mer’s mouth with a quick palm, but settling on grabbing his arm. “Surely you can _think_ that without _saying_ it out loud in a Temple courtyard, with Ordinators patrolling everywhere!”

“I guess. But aren’t we right outside the “Hall of Wisdom”? The greatest wisdom of the world is being honest, right?”

Servyn’s frown deepens. Julan pouts. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Besides, don’t you have boiled bean juice to drink?”

He does, and sips the “bean juice” with a huff, making great effort to drink as slowly as possible. Julan returns in kind with his own sigh, deciding to rummage through Servyn’s satchel to retrieve a piece of hackle-lo to idly chew on while they once again stew in a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

Like the rest of the city’s cantons, the hallways of the Hall of Wisdom are cramped and narrow, though luckily unlike the other cantons, these hallways aren’t nearly as crowded with civilians and don’t require any frantic maneuvering to avoid colliding with another person who’s too occupied by their own busy schedule to _bother apologizing for knocking you to the ground_ —the folks here especially wouldn’t apologize, as half of them are gold-clad Ordinators. Servyn gulps, instinctually gravitating closer to Julan.

“So,” Julan whispers, “this is the last stranger we have to shake down for dubious information for your totally-not-criminal boss, right?”

“Please don’t say that around Miss Milo. She’s a librarian in the prestigious Vivec Temple Library, and we ought to treat her with respect.”

“Respect? In _this_ city?” Servyn hushes Julan before he’s able to go on another rant, for they’ve reached the library’s entrance. Inside, a grand expanse of bookshelves and hallways open up like a giant forest—a world that already looks big at first glance, though noticeably reaches deeper than the naked eye can perceive; exactly how deep it goes being reflective of the profound knowledge it must house. Scholars and Ordinators flood the halls and seating areas, and are remarkably quiet given the sheer volume of them there are. A Dunmer woman notices them enter, and approaches.

“Greetings, sera. Welcome to the Temple Library.” For a moment she glances behind her, and upon noticing a gang of Ordinators passing by, she adds “and Three Blessings upon you. Might I be able to assist?”

“Three Blessings to you,” Servyn returns, bowing in respect. “We’re actually looking for someone. Do you know where we may be able to find Mehra Milo?”

The woman’s eyes widen. “I’m Mehra Milo. You say you’ve been sent to look for me? By who?” Panic lingers in her voice, and her eyes dart in several directions, specifically at the Ordinators.

“Not from any authority figure, sera. Caius Cosades. You know him, right?”

At the mention of Caius’s name, Mehra calms down, though only slightly. “Yes. I can guess why he sent you, but we can’t speak here. Follow me.”

Once situated in a barren library cranny wedged between two towering bookshelves, she sighs—be it in relief or dread, Servyn couldn’t tell.

“Caius sent you to speak about the Nerevarine Cult, no doubt.”

Servyn nods. Behind him, out of sight, Julan prickles at the mention of the Nerevarine Cult and balls his hands into fists to restrain himself from speaking up.

“Are you familiar with Saint Nerevar? That’s what the Temple calls him—what we worship him as. The Nerevarine cult views Nerevar in a different light—they believe the Tribunal are false gods, and that Nerevar’s reincarnation will one day return to strike them down from their ill-gotten power. This is, naturally, treated as wicked heresy, and any followers of the cult are punished severely for going against Temple doctrine.”

Mehra raises a palm to Servyn, who opens his mouth, ready with questions. “You’ll want to bring Caius a copy of Progress of Truth. It proscribes the beliefs of the Dissident Priests—detractors of the Temple’s persecution of the Nerevarine Cult and divinity of the Tribunal. It is a much better—and safer source than anything I can tell you here. I’m sorry I can’t be of much more help.”

She bows in shame, though Servyn is quick to bow once more to her—in gratitude. “Please sera, you’ve helped us a lot! Erm, would you happen to know where we can find a copy of Progress of Truth?”

“Sale of the book is outlawed,” Mehra says. “But…not all local bookstores follow this mandate. You may be able to find a copy somewhere, but I’m not sure. I know we have a copy here in the library, but it’s kept in the front lobby, where most of the Ordinators patrol. I’m sorry, I can’t stay any longer—they’re watching me. They’re always watching. May the Blessings protect you both, sera.” She turns around to depart, though seems to change her mind last minute and, stepping close to Servyn, whispers "My time in public wanes, and I fear trouble is on the horizon. Caius needs to know this. Should it arrive, I will leave a message for him under the code word 'amaya'."

The pair watch her quickly pace away, trying desperately to appear unbothered though very clearly wanting to return to her expected post in the front lobby as soon as possible. They trail behind, stopping at the main hallway. Servyn sighs, turning to Julan with slumped shoulders.

“Well. That was…a lot. Guess it’s back to the other cantons?”

“No way, we are _not_ going back to Jobasha’s book store. He’ll find a way to sell us even more books we don’t need—I _like_ books, mind you, but I don’t want to hike it all the way back to the Foreign Quarter just to get our wallets emptied. Can’t we just borrow the copy here?”

An Ordinator walks by, not bothering to acknowledge the pair huddled close to eachother. Regardless, Servyn mutters a meek “Three Blessings, sera!” all the same. He turns back to Julan, exhausted.

“Most libraries have a strict borrowing policy of a few days, maybe a week at maximum. I don’t think Caius will be able to read it _and_ return it by then, assuming the library even _lets_ anyone borrow this supposed “outlawed text”?

“Fine, maybe we can’t borrow it. We’ll just have to,” Julan smirks. “” _Borrow_ ” it.”

Servyn’s brows furrow. It takes him a moment, but his eyes quickly widen with a hushed gasp.

“Are you suggesting we _steal_ it!?”

“You’re really going to be uppity about this _one_ little petty crime? After summoning daedra to attack guards, trespassing into Red Mountain, and aiding in tax evasion? As far as I’m concerned, a crime against this heinous city is nothing short of restorative justice.”

“There’s guards,” Servyn whispers, trying with all his might to contain such exasperation into a hushed voice, “ _EVERYWHERE_.”

Just about every corner of the library is habited by an Ordinator, be they posted near a bookshelf, marching through the hallways, or sat at desks and podiums. One may think the guards would be dozing off in boredom over patrolling quiet library hallways—in fact, it’s entirely possible they are all asleep, underneath their golden helmets. Servyn wasn’t exactly itching to find out.

“So? Isn’t there a spell for Invisibility? Or do you not know that one? I guess we can look for a scroll shop—“

“I know it,” Servyn interrupts tersely. “And for your information, Invisibility is a fickle spell. It requires both hands to cast, and breaks the moment you try to do anything else with your hands—like steal a book off a shelf. _Chameleon_ , on the other hand—“

“You can tell me about it later, professor. Listen, the city’s temple courtyard is just outside, right? What if I wait for you there, you steal the book, immediately teleport out with Almsivi Intervention, and by the time the Ordinators notice it’s gone, we’ll already be on a gondola halfway to the Foreign Quarter! No hassle, no being chased by law enforcement, _and_ we can finally leave this gods forsaken city, having finished all of your boss’s silly chores.”

“Julan!” Servyn whips his gaze around, hoping for both their sakes that no-one heard any of what he just said—the fact that they’re still standing with both heads attached to their necks must be a good sign. He huddles to Julan closer, to speak softer (though much more agitated).

“Alright, fine! Just…please wait for me in the central courtyard so we can run for it as soon as possible. No doubt they’ll notice the book’s gone pretty quickly.”

He nods and disappears down the hallway leading towards the exit, leaving Servyn a shuddering mess darting his eyes from shelf to shelf trying to walk like a normal person _who isn’t up to anything suspicious at all_. He casts a full cloak of Chameleon, disappearing completely. _They last saw me in the back room of the library. If they see me eye the book at all, they’ll know who took it. Well they can’t pin it on me now—I was last seen in the back, I couldn’t have done it!_

_But you are doing it. You. Because of course you have to do the dirty dangerous work! Oho, you thought you were done with that? That a new life in a new land would be any different? You really aren’t wise—at all!_

The spell falters a bit; as for a split second he caught a glimpse at his hand. _No, stop. Focus on channeling the spell, idiot!_

One particular bookshelf near the front of the library sports a larger group of Ordinators than the rest of the establishment—to Servyn’s horror, in the center of the cluster, sitting wedged between the collection of Empire history books, he can just make out the large tome’s spine to read “Progress of Truth”.

They all face the front, watching those who enter and exit the library, as well as adjacent halls—this doesn’t include the small hallway _behind_ the bookshelf. _It’s okay! Just slip through the back, swipe the book, and—no, they’ll see the light from Almsivi Intervention if you teleport right then and there. You’ll have to run to a secluded hallway. Easy! It’ll be…quick and…painless!_

Servyn nearly trips over himself leaping from Almsivi Intervention’s light and into the Temple courtyard, both hands wrapped around Progress of Truth in a vain attempt to hide it. Now all that was left was to find Julan and catch the first gondola departing for the Foreign Quarter.

If only he could _find_ Julan—who, after a quick search of the general vicinity, was nowhere to be found. Servyn weaves through passing temple-goers, mumbling “Three Blessings, sera” every second of the way. _Any moment now, they’ll realize the book is gone and alert the whole Temple—and he abandoned me! I ask him to do one thing, agree to commit…felony theft! Probably… Which was his idea—and he wanders off, away from our meeting spot! How could—_

Turning a corner, the mer of his woes stands completely still, marveling what appears to be…a wall. From the angle he stands at, Servyn can’t see what he’s looking at, but doesn’t care—he found his friend, and breaks into a sprint to catch up to him (and possibly share a few choice words).

“Julan! Julan— _huff_ —I’ve got the book, let’s go!”

The taller mer doesn’t reply, nor so much as glance in his direction.

“ _JULAN_ —“

“Oh, so we can sit around and wait for you to drink bean juice, but we can’t set a few moments aside to pay our respects?”

Servyn blinks. “Pay respects? To…?”

He turns around to face the towering wall mural that has Julan so enraptured. A beautiful display of what must be thousands of tiny mosaic tiles in varying shades of deep blues and golden yellow come together into the form of a grand elven warrior amongst a sea of moons and stars. A large plaque rests below the mural, and reads “Destroyer Of The Faithless, United As One Clan Under Moon And Star: Saint Nerevar”

“This...is the saint Mehra talked about? He looks like an Ordinator...”

“ _Indoril Nerevar_ ,” Julan corrects. “Or Nerevar Moon-and-Star. And yeah, he _wasn’t_ a Saint. The Tribunal disgrace his legacy, calling him one of their saints.”

Servyn wasn’t sure what to say about that, but if this mural was at all accurate to who this Indoril Nerevar was…well, he certainly doesn’t _look_ like a saint, given the depiction’s spear, large warrior-like shoulder pauldrons, and…mohawk? Ponytail? He seemed to wear both at once, which didn’t seem feasibly possible, when he thought about it.

“There’s a song about him, passed down through generations and tribes. A song to remember him, to bring hope; something that made the lonely harsh life in the ashlands feel less bleak.” Julan breathes in slowly, closing his eyes for a few moments. When they open, a verse follows:

_Never far_

_Are the moon and stars._

_They guide us through this land of scars._

He appears lost in a completely different world, speaking these words with a sing-song wonder in his voice as he gazes upon the mural. Servyn attempts the same, though with much more confusion than reverence.

“I guess his hair is somewhat shaped into a crescent moon...” he mumbles, trying to see what Julan sees. The deep scowl he receives in response tells him he, in fact, does not get it.

“You wouldn’t understand his significance in Dunmer culture. Nobody does, because it’s easier to believe a bunch of gods built this land into what it is today than think that _maybe_ one of our own could’ve actually done it through honor and perseverance.”

A distant shriek rings from several feet away, commanding the attention of both of them. An Ordinator tears the pack off of a pilgrim’s back and empties its contents on the floor for other Ordinators to root through, answering the pilgrim’s cries of “what is the meaning of this!?” with barked orders of “Search other pilgrims nearby—the thief couldn’t have gone far.”

A grasp at the taller mer’s arm and a strong Feet of Notorgo spell later, and the pair soon found themselves at the Temple District harbor, Servyn digging a handful of drakes from his pouch (more than he probably needed, in hindsight) and shoving them in the arms of the first gondolier they could find, pleading for him to take them to the Foreign Quarter, for _urgent business_ (which wasn’t entirely a lie). With _that_ kind of money, the gondolier was more than happy to oblige.

By the mercy of whatever god, be they living or unliving, the trip from Vivec City to Balmora is significantly shorter than the journey from Ald-ruhn—they don’t even have to pay extra for overnight lodging (nor could they, as the strider they hired this time around is a normal-sized caveless strider built for short trips). Though their arrival comes at nightfall, and they merge onto the city’s landing into a sea of dotted brightly lit shop and residence lights and strings of paper lanterns alight with bright reds and blues against the black and blue evening sky, neither mer feels any need to complain about their swifter-than-expected arrival.

“I think I can get to Caius’s place on my own. You see the eye symbol on the map? We’ll meet back there in an hour or so.”

Julan grimaces at the parchment, unused to deciphering what any of settled-mer symbols mean. “I see it, but what does it mean? Are we getting our eyes examined? And why can’t I just go with you? Splitting up in a big city isn’t exactly what I’d call a smart idea.”

“It’s the local Mages Guild. I have a friend there who can help us out with whatever Caius wants me to do next—which is _secret_ , remember? _That’s_ why you can’t come with me.”

The grimace turns to a scowl, for more reasons than one. “ _Mages Guild_? Can’t we meet up somewhere less…terrible and boring and infested with _mages_?”

Servyn frowns, raising an eyebrow. “You have something to say about mages?

“All I’m saying is most of them are crotchety old loons. I mean…have you _seen_ what House Telvanni wizards are like? You think Imperial mages are any better?”

His heart stops for a moment, though it feels like a lifetime. He chooses to un-hear Julan’s words, and hopes Julan returns the kindness of not noticing his reaction to the name of House Telvanni.

“I’m not with the guild, nor do I like them as a whole. I just have a friend there, okay? Just…please be there in an hour. I’ll try to be done as soon as possible.”

_Calm down. He doesn’t know your past. He probably didn’t see you pale at the mention of House Telvanni._

_And what if he did? What if he’s always been able to tell you’re an ex-slave, and just isn’t saying anything to be nice?_

Servyn paces down the crowded city bridge with his gaze facing the ground, not noticing nor caring about the many bumps and shoves from passerbys muttering slurs at him as they move on—all except for one Dunmer, who does not utter a word upon grazing his side, but does follow close behind.

_He’d notice you’re an ex-convict before noticing you’re an ex-slave—and he hasn’t even figured out about the former yet._

_Yeah, well how long’s that going to last? It’s going to come out eventually, what with you two traveling together, for…goodness, who knows how long Julan plans to follow you around, expecting him to train you for…gods, he won’t even tell you that! You could be training an ex-convict yourself, and not even know it! Oh, if you only knew how to say no for once, to not do everything you’re told like a brainless, stupid servant!_

A cacophony of street performing musicians, clinking coins and gems, and aggressive bartering grows increasingly overwhelming as Servyn approaches the end of the bridge, which opens up into a plaza overtaken by the roaring climax of the Merchant’s Festival night market—this on top of the warm Sun’s Height heat that lingers even in the pitch black night drives him to take a detour through a dimly lit and mostly empty street. At first he relishes in the quietness, though quickly realizes his decision has taken him off course from his usual route, and will need to ask for new directions to the Mages Guild. Servyn turns around, only to jump back with a squeak at a tall Dunmer in green robes standing right behind him.

“Ack! Three Blessings, sera! If it’s not too much trouble, would you happen to have directions to—“

“Servyn.”

He blinks—three times. _How does this stranger know my name? Do we know eachother?_

“He calls you “Servyn”, for this is the name of the mark you bear in this life. I am a Sleeper, one of thousands. We bring a message from the Lord—a message to you, Ne—no. It is not yet time. Only He may suckle the sweet nectar of your true name, and you suckle the sweet nectar of His name—“

“Please, sera! I’m sorry, but I am not interested in purchasing any nectars. I don’t know who you are, or how you know my name, but…” Servyn backs away, but with every step backwards the Dunmer takes two more steps forward. “…I’m just a humble mer in need of directions to the local Mages Guild, if you have them!”

“Don’t you understand!? The Sixth House— _our_ House, has risen! Lord Dagoth bears its glory, and calls from far beyond the Mountain, from a thousand throats, to his oldest and most precious comrade. You cannot deny the call of the Lord, Servyn.”

The Dunmer approaches closer, arms forward as if intending to grab him. Nobody else is around, the street itself is already dark and cramped, and now a deranged stranger closes in just as quickly as the walls around him. With the instincts of a cornered animal forced to choose between fight or flight, he chooses the latter—literally. With arms aglow in violet, Servyn soars into the sky like an eagle, flying higher and higher without realizing Balmora was nothing more than a collection of tiny dotted lights below until he flew right through a cloud and found himself soaked in uncomfortably warm vapor and halted his upward trajectory out of shock.

The view from the sky was a startling one; existing in a not-quite-dark and quiet world between two different oceans of stars and city lights, illuminating his vision from both sides. Cliff racers don’t tend to fly at this altitude, leaving only the serenade of wind streams to remind him he was in fact still in Mundus, and not some purgatory plane of Oblivion. Looking down reminds him he’s supposed to be looking for the Mages Guild, and thus begins a slow descent to…somewhere.

 _A rooftop, maybe? It’d be easier to spot the guild from a high vantage point._ As the city comes closer into view, he’s able to make out that most roofs are actually bustling with life—street performers, night parties, sugar-tooths…all of which likely wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger suddenly landing on their property. Spotting a dimly lit roof, he hones in and allows his feet to plant onto the stone before dispelling the levitation magic, sighing in relief.

“Hmmmm? Who goes there?” a voice purrs from behind. Whipping around, Servyn finds, nestled within a throne of pillows, expensive vases, and skooma smoke is a pair of glowing eyes belonging to a very relaxed, not at all startled Khajiit.

“Oh! My apologies for disturbing you, sera; I didn’t think anyone would be here—“

“Disturb Ra’Virr?” the Khajiit cries, though not in offense. “No, not at all. The night is young, the pipe is lit, and the wind brings a friendly stranger to his shop. Not every day does this happen, sadly!”

“The…winds?”

A puff of smoke swirls from his lips. “Yes. In the homeland, it carries sand and hope. In Vvardenfell, it carries ash and secrets—new friends too, apparently! Good evening.”

Servyn watches the cloud of lavender engulf the Khajiit, who appears perfectly happy to be swallowed by the mist.

“I don’t know about that, sera. I flew here myself, because a strange mer tried to grab me…I think. I don’t know. Nor do I know what _you_ are talking about—erm, with no disrespect, of course!”

None was taken, from the unaltered grin the Khajiit still wears.

“One says a great _many_ things with the help of the sugar. Things of great wisdom, and…things of great wisdom!” He stops Servyn before he can respond with the raising of a paw—to sip another helping of skooma from his pipe. The paw lowers, signaling him to resume.

“Er… you’ve said “things of great wisdom” twice.”

“Of course! Does this one think Ra’Virr misspoke? Noooo no, he speaks _wisdom_ , for it is everywhere: in the expected places, and in the mundane. Servyn is in need of directions, which is why he is here.”

 _I didn’t choose to land here knowing another stranger who somehow knows my name could offer more gibberish I don’t understand!_ He wants to say something, and the Khajiit seems to know this, as he speaks before Servyn is able to object.

“Must this one repeat himself as often as Ra’Virr repeats the taste of the pipe? It is _wisdom_. The wind speaks, and it carried his voice to Ra’Virr, just as it carried Servyn to Ra’Virr, for it is wise, and knew to unite two souls who could help the other with their plights.”

A warm summer breeze flows through the rooftop—it doesn’t speak. Servyn suspects the Khajiit must be a poor old cat too sugar-gone to realize how little sense he was making, frowning at how much it reminded him of another certain elderly skooma enthusiast. _Seems this city has a lot of those._

Without needing to open an eye, Ra’Virr blows a smoke ring directly towards Servyn. It disperses into his face, and he coughs at the thick musky taste of secondhand narcotics.

“Servyn sees where the wind brings Ra’Virr’s ring, yes? Towards the limeware flask over there.”

“Towards _me_ , actually!” Batting the smoke away, he turns around to notice a small limeware flask on the ground right behind him, situated amongst a pile of rolled up carpets, pillows, and crates.

“Yes, yes. Ra’Virr has waited all night for somebody to visit his roof and bring him his flask, for you see, he is too comfortable right in this spot to move. Servyn will bring him his flask, won’t he?”

He supposes there’s no harm in obeying a simple request and brings the small jar to Ra’Virr. The closest thing to a “thank you” he receives is a jolly chuckle as the Khajiit opens the small compartment and empties its contents—its white crystalline contents that shimmer in the moonlight—into his skooma pipe.

“Now then,” he says, nestling the end of the pipe into his paws, “The Mages Guild is three blocks due east from Ra’Virr’s roof.” The pipe points towards a cluster of shop banners and red lanterns in a nearby plaza below. “That way, to be specific. Follow the red lanterns until they become blue lanterns. These will take him to the guild.”

Servyn nods, a burst of purple light enveloping his arms, body lifting from the ground. “Thank you, Ra’Virr. Um, and—“

“This one has no desire for a single one of his three blessings—a “Good evening” is just fine. Ra’Virr said the winds are wise; that they bring two souls in need of one another together. Servyn helped Ra’Virr, and Ra’virr helped Servyn.”

Maybe he ought to ask the winds if they could teach him how to be wise, he thinks, though quickly pushes this thought aside. With a gracious bow and a “Good evening!” he glides towards the east at rooftop-level in plain view of other residents enjoying themselves on their own stone roofs, though completely unnoticed, as a flying Dunmer is far less compelling than the sweetness of sugar.

Following the red lanterns, Servyn flies low enough to still be able to make out the hanging signs from the shops below, some of which he recognized from his first trip to Balmora. _Take this fork in the road near the three-guars banner, past the book shop’s banner—ah! There’s the wooden sign with the sword on it! That must mean—_

Just as he suspected, right by the Fighter’s Guild, bathed in the largest cluster of blue lanterns is the Mages Guild sign—though not as he suspected, Il-Tei stands outside the front door, as if waiting for someone to come out.

“Il-Tei!” he calls to the figure below, whose palms in turn glow a similar shade of purple and soar towards him at a breakneck speed, stopping just short of the other side of the string of lanterns he’d paused behind, blue light illuminating wide reptilian eyes. Without words, they speak a number of things at once—most of all, they implore him to land with her. He obeys, and is swept into an embrace the moment both pairs of feet touch the ground.

“Oh, he has returned to her arms safe and sound…in one piece and jingling with coin, for he has found work all on his own, done a good job, and was paid handsomely for it! He is a wonderful swimmer—but we always knew this!” She hugs him tighter at this, and despite the increasing difficulty to breathe through being squeezed so hard, Servyn doesn’t resist. He once again owes his life to Waterbreathing.

“And we are so proud of him, for he has made friends, too!”

She turns to Julan, who now exits the Mages Guild with Ajira, pocketing something and thanking her “for the salt, sera”. Servyn narrows his eyes, though Julan doesn’t notice while still idly chatting with the Khajiit. Another tight squeeze brings his focus back to Il-Tei.

“But my, he’s a bit lighter than we remember! Has Servyn been eating enough?”

“Huh? Well…it’s probably the coinpurse being thinner than before, what with all the expenses…”

Il-Tei gives him a look of scrutiny. Julan can’t help but laugh, having glanced to see what they were talking about.

“Pff. He’s fine—you should’ve seen all the money he wasted on bean juice and outlander sweets! I had to make dinner for him one night because he thought _cookies_ were supper!”

“Wh—“ Servyn reels, cheeks uncomfortably warm.

“Ah. Such a good friend Julan is, looking after Servyn when I cannot.” Julan puffs up his chest with a smirk, relishing in his friend’s embarrassment, as any Good Friend would.

“W-well! You owed me one after I saved you from walking right into sewer water!”

“Sewer water?” Ajira chimes in. “They have found work as plumbing mer?”

A fit of stammering and what almost sounded like “Of course not! We wouldn’t do something dangerous like that!” along with a much more clear “Azura strike me dead, if I ever stoop so low as to work for Vivec’s city!” vies for Il-Tei’s attention, though she’s focused strictly on a northward street path leading further into the Commercial District.

“Say, how about the four of us enjoy a night out—good food and good entertainment, no? Have they visited the Eight Plates at all? One of Balmora’s finest, indeed!”

Both are exhausted from the day, and can tell just by looking at eachother; only one was in the mood to respond in a respectable manner, so he speaks up before the other.

“Er, we would certainly love to,” Servyn begins, “but we really ought to find a tavern to stay in for the night. Shouldn’t be too hard to find one, right?”

“Balmora’s got four of them—probably the _only_ city with that many taverns,” Julan offers.

“The Eight Plates is one of them,” Il-Tei smiles. A hushed “oh” escapes Servyn, and Il-Tei starts on the northern path, Ajira joins her side. “Come, we’ll show the way. Have a bit of supper too, perhaps?”

Stepping into the Eight Plates brings with it a sensation of sights, sounds, and smells: the halls are alight and bustling with crowds that rival any tavern he’s ever seen, the aroma of exotic foods he knows isn’t the local fare (Dunmer cuisine would never smell this sweet!) and, most notably, the large stage that makes up a fourth of the entire first floor, where a troupe of acrobats dance the handy high-kick to a fast-paced tune played by a mixture of lutes, flutes, and drums. Even more lanterns of all colors decorate the ceiling and walls, and the patrons themselves are a mixture of what appear to be locals and out-of-town merchants—all of whom wear their wealth openly.

“Quite the lively place, this is!” Servyn blurts without thinking. Il-Tei joins his side.

“Of course! The Eight Plates is a grand spectacle, famous across Morrowind for its star entertainers and performers. They feature traditional shows from many Tamrielic cultures…as well as foreign foods! A fine place to celebrate, is it not?”

“C-celebrate?”

Ajira walks ahead, pawing the group over to an empty table. Il-Tei is all too willing to sit down, with Servyn following reluctantly; Julan even more-so, in both hesitation and distance.

“Yes! We are both so proud of Servyn—in such short time, he has come so far from the charming stranger in rags—now he is a charming _friend_ , with jobs and friends!”

Servyn sinks into his chair, blushing. He wants to mutter that he’d hardly call that a success, though in retrospect it’s a much better lot in life than…well, any other point in his miserable existence. He would profusely object to being called “charming” were it not for the fact it was Il-Tei saying it, and, bizarrely, this means the words are being said sincerely, rather than through the veil of social niceties.

“But now he must tell us all about this job of his! We’re dying to know!”

“Yeah,” Julan cuts in, sitting himself down awkwardly, “ _some of us_ are also dying to know where your next job is going to drag us to, and why.”

“Oh. Um…” Servyn fumbles, searching his brain for a way to explain his orders in a way Caius would approve. It sounded simple—meet with a former ashlander and ask him about tribal customs and the “Nerevarine prophecies”, which doesn’t sound too different from all the “Nerevarine cult” notes he’s already gathered, and _why must I go out and gather notes for people you seem to know, Caius? You seem confident enough about what these things are, with all these connections you have!_ But those were questions—and rants—he’s forbidden from talking about.

“Back to Ald-ruhn, to talk to an ashlander informant about something. Something _secret_. Can we talk about something else?”

Two “Ohh”’s and one very unenthused “What” reply at the same time. Servyn looks to the juggler on stage handling four large kwama eggs, and begins to say “It’ll be quite a mess, if that man drops even one of those eggs”, but is interrupted by an upset voice.

“If Caius wanted an ashlander informant, why didn’t you just tell him about me? It’d save us both time from hiking it all the way back to Ald-ruhn—which means more for training!”

“My jobs with Caius are _secret_ , and I’m pretty sure you said you were on your own “secret mission” too.”

“Bah. You and your _secrets_. It’s just weird, all these places and people Caius sends you to and the information he wants you to gather. And you’re _way_ more secretive than I am!”

“It is not wise for friends to hide things from eachother…”

Neither respond to Il-Tei’s comment, nor looks the other in the eye. Ajira clears her throat.

“Well! This one is certainly ready to order supper—barkeep! If you please?” She calls to an Imperial server, who hobbles over.

“Good evening, muthsera! This one serves, yes? Ajira would so love a bottle of mazte and a plate of roasted duck, if the Eight Plates has such a delicacy!”

“Of course, ma’am,” the Imperial replies. He looks to Il-Tei, who gestures for him to come closer and whisper something to him. Once he nods, she speaks clearly.

“Something light for us, perhaps. Bantam in saltrice, seared slaughterfish…ah! Some blackberry tea would be wonderful!” She turns to Julan, giving him the look of “How about you?” He doesn’t break from his current bit of pouting, though speaks up, if a bit halfheartedly.

“Racer, I guess.”

All eyes rest on Servyn, expecting him to say something. What was he supposed to say? Did they expect him to order something? He didn’t want to cost his friend any more coins than he already has—celebration or not. As if Il-Tei could read his mind, she speaks once more.

“Do you serve “roast beef with potatoes”, sera? The meat is from a beast called cows, and potatoes are similar to, but not the same as ash yams.”

“Sure do. Slaughterfish might take a bit—we’re a bit low at the moment. But alas, will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you so very much!” Il-Tei hands the Imperial a larger pouch of coins than one would expect to pay for food. Servyn, still flabbergasted and without words, only stares at her with wide eyes.

“We thought Servyn would enjoy something that made him feel at home. Cyrodiil has these “cows”, no?”

Julan blinks, face contorting into a look of disgust. “Wait. You’re from _Cyrodiil_? The heart of the _Empire_!?” Feeling a tirade coming on, Servyn interjects before his friend explodes.

“I’m _actually_ from the mainland, if you want to be so picky about it. Only lived in Cyrodiil for the past few years. Now I’m back in Morrowind. Surely there’s no problem with that.”

“See, you _are_ more secretive than me! I guess I can see why you work for Caius—you’re both perfect for eachother!“

Before anyone has a chance to cut in with their own remark about empires and deceit, the barkeep returns with a redware kettle and four teacups. “Tea’s already brewed inside, ma’am. Please enjoy—the roasts shall be ready soon.”

“Thank you!” Il-Tei beams, pouring a cup for herself and the others, despite nobody asking for it. Ajira is the only one who takes a cup, for Servyn and Julan refuse to look at eachother—or at anyone, for that matter. The table is silent, save for tea-sipping and the eventual clunk of a plate onto stone as the Imperial slowly brings out the dishes—first the bantam in saltrice, then the duck, and finally the grilled racer meat and roast beef. Servyn doesn’t pick at the food right away, but Julan adopts a sudden excitement.

“Servyn! You should try this—it’s a _local Dunmeri_ tradition; watch:” Julan digs through his pocket for a small leather pouch, and sprinkles a glowing red dust that crackles at landing upon the racer meat. “

“What—no! Where did you get fire salt, anyway?”

“The Mages Guild, obviously,” Julan replies, tossing the now empty pouch to the side.

“This one said you wanted the salts for an alchemical experiment…” Ajira sighs.

“Cooking is somewhat like alchemy, right?” he assures, sticking a fork through the now red and slightly glowing meat. Both Il-Tei and Ajira shake their heads, though the former wears a knowing smirk that contrasts the latter’s disappointed grimace.

“It will regret the consequences of its hubris,” Il-Tei drawls, sipping her tea. “Julan may cry “Fire!” if he wishes for the aid of our restorative magic.”

Julan pouts, shoving a large piece of racer into his mouth, mumbling about just “wanting to show him some authentic Dunmeri cuisine, which is _way better_ than Empire slop…”

“We would not call it _slop_ ,” Il-Tei replies, watching Servyn first nibble at the beef to test whether it was actually beef, and upon the first taste confirming it is, dig in like a guar in an egg mine tasting a delicacy so rare and sought after that he didn’t even want to pause to catch his breath. Though his spirit rarely compelled his mouth to form a smile on its own (even at the best of times), the rest of his face does the grinning for him, for his eyes glisten with glee, and his brows aren’t wrinkled into the permanent furrow they’re usually in. This is all Il-Tei needs to grin with him. She glances to Julan, whose face is contorted into pain and tinted a bit redder than his natural grey-blue skin. With one brow raised, she sighs.

“…Fire?”

“Fire!” he explodes—figuratively and literally, for he breathes a burst of flames the moment he opens his mouth. Il-Tei had already began channeling a spell before he spoke, and needed only to raise a clawed finger for the mer’s distressed panting to settle down to a deep breathing.

“Mm. Not quite as resilient to his own “authentic cuisine”, it seems. Hush, calm down, the spell takes time to heal.”

“I…I fit in _perfectly_ fine with my culture and people, thank you very much!” Julan reaches for the mazte bottle sitting between her and Ajira, though a paw bats his hand away with an unwavering “That would make the burning worse” stare.

A Bosmeri comedian sat at the stage tells the finishing punchline to a scenario asking how many thieves it takes to swipe an Ordinator’s longsword (the answer being none, for the Ordinator is lying and only claims his was stolen to receive a second blade—but it’s okay because it will help him carry out justice better, right?) The crowd erupts into laughter—even Servyn can’t help but cough a bit in a suppressed giggle. Julan is the only one to not crack a single smile at the joke, remaining slouched over and poking his dinner with a fork—something only Il-Tei notices.

“Julan is troubled by more than just fire salt burns,” she states without question, after the laughter simmers down and a band of lute players replaces the comedian.

“What?”

He scrambles to look unbothered: straightening his back and fully sticking his fork into the racer meat and nearly stuffing another fiery bite into his mouth, though dropping it with a huff.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Mm. We’re perhaps much older than he thinks—for better or worse, we understand more than we’d like!”

“Maybe so. But a city mer—erm, lizard, cat…a city _anyone_ could never understand what it’s like for an ashlander to mingle in civilization. All this—“ he gestures to the Breton sword swallower currently balancing an ornate blade in his throat. “Who in their right mind would think to do that with a sword? Or juggle kwama eggs at the risk of dropping them and wasting food? Now I come to find that Servyn is from Empire central, and probably both of you and everyone here is with them, and…it’s just a lot!”

She chuckles. “Balmora is allied with the Empire, yes. _We_ , on the other hand, enjoy the many times steel-clad men from the Moonmoth Legion Fort come down from their high hill—figuratively and literally—and slip on a pile of guar dung, or complain about the cliff racers nicking their helmets right from their heads. It is quite funny! Servyn may say even less charitable things than us, were his heart much darker.”

Julan allows a corner of his mouth to upturn, though still remains grim. “Either way, I’m still too…different from everyone here. Different even from my own tribe! There, I said it. You’re from a guild, right? Everyone in a guild at least _belongs_ somewhere!”

“Shhhh, be still, young warrior. All fish: big to small, young to old, river to ocean endure torrents all the same.” Il-Tei sips her tea with a sympathetic gaze towards Julan, who wears a look of utter bewilderment.

“Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand.”

Il-Tei sets her cup down—after one last sip, of course—and gives a sad smile.

"We know the feeling of being out of place. And different. Why, in our youth, we were a very different person by a very different name—a name only the wrinkly bog ferns and pesky haj-mota hatchlings of the Shadowfen swamps heard, as she had only these companions to weep to. Her parents—why, the whole village, really! They knew her as a big horned…warrior, if he could believe it!”

Julan looks her up and down, his expression stating “Clearly, you’re not a warrior.” She nods, as if he’d spoken these words out loud.

“We are the children of the Hist trees—its roots, as well as its seeds. The Hist understood her cries, and helped her transform into the Saxhleel she was meant to be, from the form she was most unhappy with in her younger years—a form she still lives with, in some ways.”

Julan blinks out of confusion—very curious confusion, for he’d never heard of anything like this in the few books he’s read, and always wanted to learn more about cultures in the other provinces. Nevertheless, he was _confused_.

“These troublesome horns grow back every once in a while, and this faded river of orange on her neck is nothing special to the untrained eye of men and mer, but egg-kin know of what it means, for it is not uncommon in our culture. Soft-skin folk…they aren’t always as understanding. This is the sadness of life—we cannot choose how _it_ treats us, for it is an unpredictable river that ebbs and flows on its own will. We may only choose with certainty how _we_ treat it. The strokes we make, the schools—be they of blood or water—we travel with, and so on.” As she speaks, she leans sleepily against Ajira, who purrs despite her partner’s size overwhelming hers. Opening one eye, Il-Tei chuckles.

“It seems he has already learned that water and blood aren’t so different, no?"

She glances to Servyn, who upon noticing her discerning gaze, turns back to his plate as if there were anything still on it—not the best choice of objects to pretend to have been focusing on instead of listening in, though she didn’t mind either way. Julan still stares at her as if she spoke in a completely different language.

“Fish, sera! Wild caught and pristinely fresh, straight from the Odai River! Hard to come by in the dry ashlands, no doubt!”

Right on cue, the bartender arrives with a plate of filleted slaughterfish and places it in front of Il-Tei, who offers it to Julan. He blinks again, but this time in amazement.

“I…well. _Most_ tribes live inland, but _mine_ lives on the northeastern coast, so they’re pretty common. My mother taught me how to breathe water when I tried to catch a slaughterfish and almost drowned, but then I found out swinging a sword underwater wasn’t as easy as it seemed. At least mudcrabs come on land every once in a while!”

Pushing the plate of still-glowing racer meat aside, Julan helps himself to the slaughterfish, with Servyn adding a fillet or two to his plate after giving Il-Tei a look and receiving a nod in return. Silence—comfortable silence hangs between the group for a while, and is only broken by a yawn from Il-Tei.

“My…the late hours of nighttime aren’t as easy to enjoy with these old bones! Aji agrees, yes?”

Ajira wipes her eyes, yawning herself. “This one is ready for the soft sheets and warmness of her embrace, yes.” Servyn pauses from chewing to watch the two rise from their seats, dejected and wanting to say something, though Il-Tei hushes him.

“Servyn must not speak with his mouth full—it is not usually polite, though we do not care about that. Nourishment is much more important, sera.”

He obeys and swallows. “You’re going back to the guild?”

“For the night, yes. Truly a shame they cannot accompany us—mean old Ranis and her close-minded ways. But we have already paid for a night’s stay for the both of them, and they are welcome to visit anytime tomorrow, so we can authorize use of the guild’s teleportation services to Ald-ruhn. Much faster than travelling by strider!”

Servyn nods, suppressing his sadness. A hug is all he can muster as a substitute for “Thank you” and “Goodnight”—a language of silence that Il-Tei is familiar with and returns in kind. She glances at Julan, who hands the publican a small pouch of drakes in exchange for a few bottles of mazte.

“He will drink responsibly, yes?”

“Huh?” Servyn turns around to see the drinks his friend purchased, and sighs.

“What?” Julan calls, twisting the cork off the bottle and pouring a mug for himself. “We’re in a tavern, aren’t we? Might as well have a drink!”

He can’t help but face-palm, though a claw soon removes his hand to look him in the eyes. “He will be responsible, and see us tomorrow morning?”

“O-of course, sera. Um…“ Servyn attempts once more to thank her—for many things; more things he could ever hope to thank her for in one lifetime. This ought to be easy, though he has a feeling the wave of apologies and “I don’t know why you waste your kindness on a s’wit like me” he instinctually wants to blurt doesn’t really count as proper gratitude. As she always does, her warm smile and kindness evident in her eyes tells him that he doesn’t need to thank her, for she is happy to look out for him. With one last squeeze, they depart—Servyn back to the table, and Il-Tei and Ajira through the front door as the lute player finishes his serenade about cliff racers flying high in the sky ( _though not actually that high_ , Servyn thinks to himself, for he didn’t see any during his earlier flight—and he barely went past the clouds!)

“Tell me— _hic_ —tell me, Servyn. What do you want out of life? Like…your goals, and such…”

Around two hours had passed since Il-Tei and Ajira left the Eight Plates, and about the only thing that changed since is the significantly dwindled crowd—the responsible kind had long since shuffled off to bed for a good night’s rest at the reasonable hour of midnight. The irresponsible kind remain occupied with the same activities they’ve already engaged with since the youth of evening: the surly bard recites a raunchy story about an Argonian mistress complete with songs (the fifth time tonight) a frazzled-hair Bosmer plays along with the bard (one hand striking a drum to the beat of the singing, the other holding steady an ornate skooma pipe), and Julan still drinks from his large cup of matze—finishing it, in fact, and grips the neck of the half-full jug to pour another for himself. Servyn doesn’t comment as he watches his friend irritably brush away the three other empty jugs strewn haphazardly throughout their table—forming a single thought would distract him from pouring himself a fourth mug of sujamma.

“Mug again?” Julan drones, taking one look at his own cup and tossing it to the floor. “Better off drinking straight from the bottle!”

Servyn follows along, ignoring any bit of clarity to think “Maybe this isn’t a good idea”, straight to guzzling from the bottle to a point that snaking streaks of the stuff escape the corners of his mouth and drip onto his scarf. The drink burns like snake’s venom going down his throat, and settles uncomfortably like a crackling fire pit in his stomach.

_Really, though. Why are you subjecting yourself to this? It hurts, tastes terrible, and—_

“Ha! Didn’t think you’d actually do it! Maybe you outlanders aren’t _all_ soft…”

_—and now I think I’ll have another drink!_

The pair is silent for a bit, save for the gulping of drink and occasional interruption to catch one’s breath to emit the longest, ugliest belch.

“You didn’t answer— _hic_ —uh. What your goals in life is…”

“What?” Servyn slurs, barely awake. “Mmf… jus’ a normal life, I guess. Respectable job that isn’t too stressful nor too boring, a solid roof over my head—one that belongs to _me_ , three meals a day…maybe more, depending on how bad the day is—“

“Bah! Never mind, that’s boring! You’re kind of boring, you know that Servyn? No no, not the _bad_ kind of boring, don’t look at me like that—hey, why don’t we have another drink? That’s a good way to un-boring ourselves—yourself. _I’ve_ been enjoying the booze well and good, thank you very much!”

Servyn obeys, downing a hefty gulp straight from the sujamma bottle with much less regret than he expected to have. _I guess Julan would know how to not be boring…_

“Now you’re talking—ehm, drinking. You haven’t really _talked_ much. Why’s that?”

“Huh? I just told you…I told you…” Servyn trails off a bit, slumping deeper into the chair at the effort it takes to remember what he was about to say. His head felt like a soggy wet rag fermenting in thick viscous swamp water—tossing and turning a bit with the occasional bubbling and sloshing of muck, but ultimately drowning in a prison of slime sticky than liquid.

A low belch escapes his throat, though the sour stinging taste of bile coming up causes him to swallow it all down again. Julan rocks a cup back and forth with his index finger, grinning wildly and giggling at nothing, even when he accidentally nudges the redware a bit too hard and it spills on the table with a _clunk_. Servyn blinks at the mess a few times. _What in Oblivion were they even doing right now? Gods, it must be late…_

“Well…" Julan says, " _I_ have big plans. Bigger than anyone can understand. But sometimes I miss Shani…”

“Mm. Didn’t know you had other friends ‘sides me,” Servyn drawls.

“Other what?”

“Friends.”

“ _Friends_? Y’say that in plural, like I have more than your sorry ass to follow ‘round…”

“You _just_ said you miss a…Shahney? Something like that…”

“Who?”

“ _I_ don’t know! B’vehk _, you_ said it, not me!” Servyn grasps the sujamma with both hands, relishing in another long swig.

“Eugh, what are you doing, referencing that lunatic Vivec’s presence like that. The Tribunal are shams! Godless! Without godhood…you know what I mean!”

“I _don’t_ know Julan, I just…heard it somewhere? I don’t know anything about anything, okay? And it’s _you_ who chooses to follow me around, so who— _hic_ —whose behind is really sorry?”

“Mine! _Sheogorath_ …” Julan wobbles out of his seat, swaying at the effort it takes to stand upright even with one arm against the table for support. “How long have I been sitting here? What _time_ is it?”

“Time to have another drink! And on Oblivion, if you’re so picky about which gods we’re allowed to use as expletives, then maybe I’ll say “By Saint Nerevar, I don’t know!” B’Indoril? B’erevar? Gods, I _hate_ language…”

Julan whips around with newfound agility—and rage. Seething fiery rage that Servyn’s too drunk to realize he maybe ought to feel alarmed by his friend’s sudden fury. He instead continues, words slurred in a haphazard sing-song:

“Ne-re-var Moon and Star…guides us to the land of...bars! That’s how that song went, right? He certainly got us to the _bar_!” His second attempt to guzzle the jug is interrupted by a furious hands shoving dirty redware dishes off the table, and he is only able to blink once towards the crash it makes upon shattering on the ground before the same hands responsible now clutches his scarf and forces him forward.

“You! You… _disgrace_ Indoril Nerevar’s legacy, his honor! He’s not—I _told_ you, he’s _not_ one of _their_ saints!”

“I mean, is he around? For you to ask? Maybe he’s a saint _part-time_ , or something… I’d be too, what with how expensive just _being alive_ is…”

“You don’t know what in Oblivion you’re talking about, you…you—“

“’Course I do! I’m _saying_ there’s food, shelter, a fifth mug of sujamma…the bare necessities to live costs an arm and a leg to afford! I’d be a part-time saint too, if they’d have me…”

Silence hangs between them like an acrobat over a tightrope. After one more sip of the bottle, Servyn blinks slowly.

“Know if there are any fat saints? I bet if I wore a fancy robe—“

A palm knocks the sujamma to the ground. The shattering of glass doesn’t cause Servyn to flinch, but the sight of Julan’s face twisted into rage does. Those around them who are still awake perk up; some chanting "Fight! Fight!" while the publican grabs a ceramic jar.

“Bets! Place yer bets—oh, one for the tall one, eh? Thank you sera—oh, three more for the tall one? Oh, Councilor! You’re a betting man, eh? _Five hundred_ on the portly one?”

Perhaps at any other time, Servyn would have enough sense to realize “I’ve angered my friend, I ought to apologize and stop acting like a surly s’wit. Would’ve, could’ve, _should’ve_ …yet he instead slams a hand on the table (albeit a little harder than he meant) and hobbles out of his chair and over to Julan to give him a hard confident stare—as if he weren’t craning his neck up quite a bit to lock eyes with the significantly taller mer.

“You’re making a big mistake— _hic_ —Julan…challenging a wizard to a—“

Before he knew it, Servyn found himself on the ground, pain shooting into the back of his head as it slams into the stone floor, blurring his vision even more-so than the liquor ever could. The only sense still functioning somewhat properly allowed him to hear a smug slurring of “How’s that for a Conjuration spell, huh? I call it Banish Disrespectful N’wah!”

A combination of Restore Fatigue and Levitate enables him to leave the ground, not quite standing (as he would certainly not be able to stand straight) nor quite floating in place, as the drink sloshing through his system directly translates to the sloshing unsteady flight further off the ground than a normal, sane Servyn would’ve chosen.

“Well I call this one…this one is… Fortify Distance From The Ground! And I’m _not_ going to teach it to you _or_ write it down, so _there_!”

“You guar-faced son of an ogrim!”

“Ogrim!” Servyn spouts with more laughter than anger, floating upside down. “I bet you wouldn't dare to say that a second time!"

With a pointed finger, he casts Far Silence at Julan. Though the light from the spell is only visible to him, his friend's eyes widen the moment it strikes, signaling he can feel the magic's effect. He does not, however, look afraid.

“Idiot!” Julan shouts, very much still able to speak. “Silence doesn’t literally mute someone! Fly a bit— _hic_ —lower and I’ll show you how to really silence someone!”

Servyn yawns, half in mocking and half in genuine drowsiness. His eyes are heavy—closed, in fact. “I’d rather fly _higher_ , how about _that_ , huh? Just watch…” With another spurt of violet light, Servyn…flies straight down towards the ground, colliding into an explosion of empty cups and cutlery with a resounding crash. He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes and realize he was still floating upside down, and so believed up was down and down was up—not that the second meeting of face to floor convinced him he had actually soared downward. He just hit the _ceiling_ , that’s all.

Before Julan stomps by to deliver another blow, the publican steps between the two with a haggard “All right, all right, that’s enough. You two have more than proved your points—whatever they were—and ought to hit the wickwheat for the night, eh?”

“Hit the what? What are we hitting?” Servyn half-heartedly lurches his arms a bit, though gives up at the tremendous soreness in his limbs. Julan grumbles, but the innkeeper wraps an arm over his shoulder.

“Come, I’ll show you to your room. And thanks for the payout on that fight, sera!” The second part is whispered rather than spoken, though neither remarks receive a more coherent answer than slurred growling as the two disappear down the lodgings hallway.

Whether the publican purposefully decided to retreat to bed before returning to help Servyn up or simply forgot, the shorter mer, after a few minutes that to him felt like a few hours, wrestles his scarf off and shuffles it beneath his head for a makeshift pillow and curls up into a ball, attempting to find as much comfort as one can on the cold stone floor that reeked of every drink known to man and mer.

“Hello?” he burbles, trying one last time to rouse attention for someone to help him.

“Bah! Keep it in your gullet, pipsqueak! _Some_ of us are trying to sleep!” Another drunk patron growls from a few feet away—also laid sprawled on the floor.

Servyn obeys.


	12. Ghostfence

With a head all too clear and a body all too stable, Servyn awakens into a smoldering world of red—a world that is uncomfortably familiar, yet…different. Standing up, he finds himself at the foot of a stone walkway surrounded on both sides by red candles reaching far back into an unknown realm—for how long exactly was impossible to discern, for their flares are weak and they, along with the pathway, are soon engulfed by deep darkness. The candlelight just barely illuminates the closest walls, which look remarkably similar to the religious temples in Cyrodiil, if they were carved from Oblivion itself. There was something wicked with their design: the daedric symbols, stone pillars housing crimson glowing-eyed statues nestled within carved out openings, and elaborate and unfamiliar horned crests worn by gently fluttering banners—not unlike the Great Houses and how they fly their emblems. Servyn wasn’t sure whether to stay or flee, for both directions of the pathway lead to nothingness…or worse.

“And so, from the hands of your enemies, I have delivered you.”

_That voice. I’ve heard it before._

The tall golden masked figure strolls up from behind him, arms folded behind his back with chin held high, as if he expected Servyn to be here. Most alarming of all, he could neither jump nor scream at the figure’s arrival, as if frozen by the terrifying presence.

“Alas! This alone was not enough, for you returned to the claws of your murderers, at the time called comrades, yet in name only. One alone wore this title with honor—he still waits. _I_ still wait. Though many rooms remain in house of the Master, _yours_ lies empty, as it has for much too long, beside the throne.”

The figure gives one glance to Servyn—though hidden behind the mask, he allows his face to crumple into a sadness he knows his friend, in his current state, won’t understand.

“Come! Perhaps if you bear witness to the future, you shall change your mind. Save yourself of a pain endured once long ago; save me from a pain too unbearable to endure twice.”

Servyn watches the masked man step into the darkness, stop, and turn around; nothing more than three red glowing orbs amidst the murky abyss.

“Please, my friend. For the lone king.”

What compels him forward is a mystery as foreign as the world around him, yet here he was, stepping forward. As he approaches the man, the once unlit candles flicker to life, revealing what was once engulfed in darkness. He could see the glimmer of gold once again. It follows by his side, as his legs continue to act on their own despite every other part in his body wanting to stop. The temple-like world grows ever more visible as candles continue to alight with every step, their glows creating crescent shaped rims of light against statues…or figures? Before he’s able to examine them, he notices the vague outline of steps upon him—once foot meets carpeted stone, an entire wall of candles spread out in a circle before him burst into flames, revealing a stone altar at the center of them. A body lies on top of it.

“Closer, my friend. Though it is not a pretty sight, it is an important one.”

As with all requests, Servyn obeys, approaching the altar with far less reluctance than he should feel. Was this out of curiosity? Obedience? Loyalty? None of these made sense, for he doesn’t know the masked man, and has no reason to honor his requests...yet something inside him rejected this. As if there _was_ a reason, and he just didn’t know it.

At once, the fog of darkness disperses as Servyn stops at the altar, revealing a dead body— _his_ body, laid upon the cold stone. A great gash through his heart blooms in red, its tendrils seeping far enough to disappear into the black realm beyond the dim light of candles surrounding his corpse.

“It happened once before, so, so long ago.” Though the voice of the masked man is deep and husky, confident and unwavering in its raw power, these words are nearly wept.

The corpse draws breath and rises from the altar, eyes aglow with a bright red that is near identical to the masked man, who approaches once again. To scream, to run, to fight—though Servyn wishes to do all of these at once, just as the first dream, nothing sounds from his lips, nor does his own body act in accordance with his will.

“The hands of fate crush, like talons in prey, upon the foolhardy who weave the same threads which once ended them, incarnation after incarnation—never more! _You_ can change this! _You_ can change your path—come forth, Nerevar! Come forth, when time is ripe, to the throne of the Master!”

His legs inch forward, as if controlled by a will that is not his own. The corpse shambles off from the stone, the cavity in its chest dripping as if the wound were still fresh, the masked man opens his arms in welcoming embrace, and all Servyn can do is shut his eyes in a wince for the coming horror that awaits him.

As it turns out, he can indeed scream, though it only comes out where it matters least: in reality, where he jolts awake shrieking at…a room filled with light, towards a stone wall decorated with hanging tapestries and dimly lit lanterns. The first thing he notices is he’s no longer in the crimson-seeped temple with the corpse and the masked man, nor is he in the Eight Plates main hall he last remembers being in…nor on the floor, for that matter, as he finds himself tucked underneath a soft blanket upon a cozy inn room bed. The second thing he notices is a searing headache and nauseous gurgling stomach—be it for the want for breakfast or the overwhelming urge to throw up, he wasn’t sure. If it’s the latter, he doubts he’ll be able to rush to the sewer manhole at the back of the Temple before it’s too late—nor does he have the energy to even bother.

The third thing he notices is approaching footsteps towards the inn room door followed by Julan stumbling through, carrying a bucket in one hand and a tray of water glasses in the other—the latter of which he nearly drops.

“Was that you screaming? What happened?”

The mer looks just as disheveled as he remembered from last night—a terrible night that is entirely his fault, he concludes. If he were being honest, he’s more surprised to see Julan is still here than he is to find himself in a bed he doesn’t remember crawling into.

“Nothing, just…a bad dream. I’m fine. What about you?”

“Well,” Julan begins, clearing his throat and sitting himself down on the edge of the bed, “I got up early because my head hurt and I felt like vomiting my insides out—just my luck, an Ordinator was in the basement bathing hole at the time, and left his boots outside. Came back up, stepped on you, felt concerned when that didn’t wake you up…so now you’re here.”

“Oh…” Servyn mumbles, feeling a sore spot in his side where he presumed the stepping happened—he deserved that. “Was it bad? H-heavy, I mean…”

“Not really. I used a Fortify Strength spell—“

Servyn makes to speak, though only a half hiccup half burp comes out, and he retreats back into the pillow to curl into his stomach, shivering at the sickness and trying desperately not to hurl. Julan waits for him to finish whimpering, allowing him to retry what was intended as an interruption. It comes in a groggy mumble after a few minutes.

“It’s better to use Feather…than Fortify Strength… it’s a gradual wearing off, and Fortify is…”

“I know. I just thought putting a spell on you in this state was risky, what with the bad hangover. Not one to hold your liquor, I take it.”

“No, and good riddance to that poison. I’m much happier to be able to hold my kwama eggs better…”

“Bah. You just want to puke it back up on me for payback.”

“Maybe I should—ow…” Servyn whimpers, nursing a bruise on the back of his head, from when Julan shoved him to the floor the previous night. “Between the burns, bruises, and reckless drinking that’s come with your company, you’re a real… _urp_ …piece of work!”

Julan sighs, placing the bucket onto his friend’s lap.

“Alright, sit up. You’ll feel better after—“

He didn’t need to finish his sentence for Servyn to obey the suggestion. Julan, for his part, holds the bucket steady with one hand and rests the other on the shorter mer’s back, rubbing small circles against it and occasionally re-pushing his friend’s hair back until, after all he could muster was a bout of dry heaving, the bucket floats into the air, controlled by a hand aglow with white telekinetic light, placing itself into the farthest corner of the small inn room to signify it was no longer needed. The light disperses, and its caster melts into the pillows, which Julan had propped against the wall, so as to discourage lying down in case another round of vomiting was necessary.

“You wouldn’t be the first person to call me a piece of work.” Julan offers a cup of water, a mixture of guilt masked as annoyance and sadness masked as indifference taut in his face. “Water helps with a hangover, trust me. I’ll get us some breakfast once we’ve had a bit of time to clear our heads.”

Servyn takes it, finishing it off in one big chug. He tosses it onto the bed, too disoriented to place it neatly on the nearby nightstand.

“I’m sorry, Julan. I didn’t mean…um. It’s not your fault. I’m a horrible trainer, and an even worse friend.”

“ _Sheogorath_ , are you going to go on another self-hating tirade again? We _both_ acted like complete s’wits last night.”

“Well I’m not _wrong_ , am I? A few spells on parchment isn’t exactly training—you could’ve gotten that _and_ some basic lessons from any local magic shop for half the time and a fraction of a percent of the headache!”

Julan takes a sip from his own water cup, eyes in bored half-slits.

“Yeah, probably. But I got to thinking last night—and before you say anything, I _can_ have coherent thoughts while drunk, thank you very much. Anyway, the truth of the matter is I’ll never know _when_ exactly I’m ready to face my destiny. I can train for the next month, year, _decade_ —become the strongest I can be, but it won’t matter if He awakens and destroys everything first.”

“He…? Who’s—“

“Not important. The point is: I can’t keep putting off my mission. I need to confront it _now_ —at Red Mountain. We— _I_ have to go back.”

Servyn stares at him, eyes wide and face pale—from the hangover, he tells himself. Just because of that. Julan tries to give a soothing smile.

“I know what you’re thinking. But listen, you don’t have to help me get back within the Ghostfence—I’m supposed to do it alone, anyway. Besides, you really are too hard on yourself. I’ve learned a lot just by watching you: using wit and creativity instead of raw power to harness the true potential of magic, not seeing it for what it _is_ on the surface, but _how_ it can used in ways no-one else thinks to use it. Most mages are stuffy and dry, blinded by a pursuit for power. Warriors too, I guess. But you’re not like that at all. Thanks for being different, Servyn.”

Another sip, eyes just as unenthused as ever—as if Julan hadn’t said anything outlandish at all. Servyn needed time to process everything: if this means they’re truly parting ways, why it’s happening so suddenly, and why it matters as much as it does, if the knotting in his heart was any indication. The most troubling part is knowing he probably won’t get said time.

“You’re…” Servyn hiccups, and for the second time brushes this off as a symptom of the sickness, absolutely not because he’s trying his hardest not to sob. “…You’re absolutely mad, Julan! The gate guards won’t just _let_ you through, after the stunt we pulled to get in the first time. You’re probably going to have to sneak in.”

The taller mer blinks. “ _Sneak_ in? There’s only one entrance, as far as I know. The only other way inside is to fly over the Ghostfence, and…I haven’t quite…mastered a powerful enough Levitation spell to do that.”

Servyn, for the first time in a long while, lets a corner of his mouth rise with determination and finality in his words:

“Ever heard of a spell called Fortify Distance From The Ground?”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier for you to write this Levitation spell down and send me on my way?”

They separate for a moment to dodge a group of pack guar barreling through the busy streets of the Commercial District—crowded and cramped as mornings in Balmora tends to be. If anything, it interrupts the wave of protests and deflections Servyn was about to spout off, and allows him to respond calmly by the time they regroup.

“I’m going with you—that’s that. Besides, I’m headed to Ald-ruhn anyway.”

“Well, you don’t have to stay once I’m in Red Mountain territory. As soon as we’re inside, you can fly back over the Ghostfence, or teleport back to the city Temple—“

“Oh, I’ll teleport back to the Temple. I’d just prefer to make sure you survive at least two steps without getting mauled by cliff racers, is all.”

“So then after I make it past two steps—thanks for the confidence in me, by the way—then…?

“I’ll decide when we get there. Now,” Servyn huffs, running his fingers through his hair one last time in an attempt to straighten it, “do I look somewhat less like a mer who got black out drunk last night?”

Julan beholds his friend with scrutiny—his frazzled-hair spilling haphazardly over his face, wrinkled clothes wearing slumped over friend with dark circles under his eyes so prominent, one could easily mistake it for faded paint markings.

“You’re not going to be able to hide it—trust me, a mother always knows when her son’s done something she disapproves of.”

“She’s not my mother! I just…don’t want to disappoint her…” In reality, Servyn wasn’t sure Il-Tei would actually be disappointed. She would probably be too kind to show it, and comfort him with some proverb about how “ _a mistake is but a single thread in a person’s tapestry—a tapestry that, when seen in the grand scheme of things, displays a beautiful work of art all the same_.” But she should still be disappointed! And if she isn’t…then he’ll just have to be disappointed in himself on her behalf.

“Well,” Julan says, stopping in front of the Mages Guild and opening the entrance door without so much as a knock, “it doesn’t matter, we’ve got a Ghostfence to trespass into—again, so let’s go!”

“W-well yes, but—“ Servyn wants to inform him he isn’t exactly welcome here and suggest waiting for Il-Tei or Ajira to come out on their own, but with his friend already bolting inside, his words would only fall on deaf ears. Against his better judgment, he follows, trying to ignore the sour looks of guild members who immediately recognize him as the soul-sick Dunmer they were graciously rid of not too long ago. _So long as the guildmaster doesn’t see me, maybe we can find Il-Tei before—_

“HEY! What are _you_ doing back here!?”

The shrill unmistakable voice of Galbedir followed by stomping footsteps compels him (thankfully not Julan, for he seems to have disappeared far ahead) to freeze like a statue, paralyzed by the Bosmer’s venomous glare.

“Well? Didn’t we make it clear you’re not wanted here? Has the Ald-ruhn branch already had enough of you, and decided to dump their garbage back on us?”

“No—I mean, yes…I mean! I’m only visiting for a moment, to see—“

“Ranis, the transient is back!”

Before there’s any indication Ranis even heard her, Servyn turns around and nearly collides with…Ranis, with her arms folded and face sternly neutral—probably just a formality, if anything, though it only makes her more frightening to behold.

“You’re back.”

_Gods Julan, where are you? Why did you run off? Why did I follow you in here!?_

Ranis smirks—for what Servyn couldn’t fathom, nor did he want to stick around the find out. Other mages gather around, as if sensing his impending demise, with Galbedir at the front.

“I see it didn’t take long for Edwinna to banish you. And Skink, no doubt; is that why you’ve crawled back to us? To beg for admittance again, after being shunned by the other guilds?”

Servyn straightens his stance, despite every urge he has to wither in her presence. “I’m here to see Il-Tei. That’s all, sera.”

The smirk disappears.

“Tei doesn’t have a say in who is and isn’t accepted into the guild; if that were true, you wouldn’t be here groveling at our doorstep again, now would you?.”

Oh, how he would love to tell her he isn’t “groveling” for anything! That he’d sooner perish face down in a ditch than work for the Mages Guild. For better or worse, a familiar voice chimes before he’s able to not-so-kindly speak his mind.

“Ranis! The boy said he is only visiting; did she not hear him?”

The crowd disperses enough for Il-Tei to walk in—only Galbedir stands firm, though she sidesteps by the Bosmer without so much as a glance.

“For her information, it was us who invited Servyn to stop by. If she wishes to enforce scrutiny like an overzealous wizard with a new toy wand, she may do so in the privacy of her own quarters, as she so loves to contemplate replacing us for another guild healer, but knows no better exists in Balmora, so she settles on raising our guild dues—again. Go on, have at it. Come, Servyn. Julan waits for us in the lounge.”

Nobody argues with her—certainly not Servyn. He eagerly follows her to the main guildhall to the small sitting area where Julan examines the books on the nearby tea table with curiosity. He takes a seat next to his friend, with Il-Tei across from them.

“Il-Tei! Um, good morning!”

It only takes a moment after he speaks for Il-Tei to taste the alcohol in his breath with a flick of her serpentine tongue. Servyn wilts at the slight wince she gives at the foul flavor, though her face soon after softens.

“Servyn thinks we are disappointed; but perhaps he is mistaken, for we feel no such ire. It is his job to live his life as he chooses—ours to live life as we choose, and we choose to be here for him when he is sickly and in need of a good cup of tea. Aji, have we got any ginger left?”

“Already set a pot on the boiler, dear!” the Khajiit calls from afar. Before Servyn has a chance to fuss over “Ginger tea again? Wasn’t that the terribly bitter and spicy stuff from before?” Julan grabs his palm and stands up.

“Thank you, sera. Your kindness exceeds your years twice-fold, and thrice-fold what either of us deserve; but we’re in a bit of a hurry to reach Ald-ruhn—Servyn, you’re meeting with an ashlander informant, right? Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting!”

Curious reptilian eyes glance first at the entwined hands, then to Julan’s determined face contrasting Servyn’s wide confused eyes that quickly (though not fast enough) shift into faux-confidence.

_What should I say? She’ll no doubt react badly if I tell her about flying over the Ghostfence. Gods, what if she already knows just by looking at me?_

“Y-yes! That is correct—the mer is a busy merchant, as I’ve been told; in fact, I was supposed to see him the first time I visited Ald-ruhn, but he was away on a trip. He _should_ be back by now…”

“Exactly,” Julan adds. “We wouldn’t want to miss this man a second time! Servyn told me the guild has a teleportation system that can take us to Ald-ruhn, and that you would be able to authorize its use. Forgive my forwardness, for at any other time we’d be happy to stay and talk, but might we head out soon? Preferable right now?”

Ajira arrives with a tray of tea and cookies and places them on the tea table, though doesn’t leave upon realizing her wife’s stern pondering gaze.

“Illy, is everything alright?”

Silence stirs in the air like a crisp winter wind, though only for a few short moments, as Il-Tei quickly snaps back into a warm expression.

“Ah, we were just thinking of what to pack Servyn for his trip! Hackle-lo or scrib jerky…a silly question, of course! Both will suffice. Aji, have we still got the good waterskins—the ones which can hold hot liquids? The boys are in a hurry, and cannot stay for very long. They will still drink their tea, which will soothe their minds and bellies from too much drinking, yes?”

One “Of course!” followed by a much less enthusiastic “Of course” is enough to bring a wide smile to her face.

“Good! The teleportation altar is down that hallway over there. May we borrow Servyn’s satchel? Aji and I will finish packing for him and authorize a trip to Ald-ruhn as soon as we’re finished.”

“’Hoy, Servyn!” Julan shouts, voice just barely audible through the raging ash storm that not once let up since they left Ald-ruhn. “I found a good place to camp for the night!”

An entirely different gust—one of crippling chill and icy wind bursts nearby, disrupting the ash just long enough for its caster to stumble out from it and nearly collapse into Julan, who jumps at the sudden explosion of magic.

“Hey! Why the sudden blizzard? Cliff racers again?”

Servyn shakes his head, wrapping his arms in on himself. “No… the b-b-blizzard…is a strong wind! I couldn’t see you, s-so—I cleared a w-way!“

Julan sighs, approaching his friend while reaching for the wrapped up blanket strapped to his backpack, undoing the string holding it together, and draping it around the shivering mer.

“Come on, there’s shelter up here.”

“Sh-shelter? Really?”

After some trudging, the chaotic storm of ash ends at the shielded caved in portion of a towering hollowed out shell.

“Dead strider shell. Not a rare sight out here, sadly. Makes good temporary shelter if you’re without a yurt, though.

Were he not cold, exhausted, and completely drained of magicka, he’d perhaps have enough energy to rightfully be mortified at the prospect of camping in a rotting insect’s corpse for the night. Instead, Servyn drops his pack (and himself) face-first into the ground, sighing in relief that at last, they can rest for the night.

“So,” a chuckle begins, “how’s genuine ashland dirt taste, eh?”

“Like _ash_ , Julan. Is that what you want me to say? That the _ashlands_ taste like _ash_?” His words are muffled, for he was too tired to even lift his head to speak. Julan, in all the joy it brings him to watch a settled mer experience a true taste (figuratively and literally) of his native land, intervenes by helping his friend sit up whilst trying not to laugh at Servyn’s dust-caked face.

“Might I reiterate for the fifth time today: you didn’t have to come with me.”

Servyn wants to grumble about how he’s right and shouldn’t have tagged along…yet he had all the chances in the world earlier in the day to warp back to town with Almsivi Intervention, and…he’s still here, following the reckless ashlander.

“There wasn’t a storm last time I ventured out here! If I knew there would be, I most certainly wouldn’t have joined you.”

_That’s a lie, and you know it. But he doesn’t have to know._

“You really want to watch me get mauled by monsters that bad, huh?”

Undoing the rolled up bedroll and spreading it out, Servyn sets his pack at the head of his bedding for a pillow and burrows into the thin sheets. Julan huffs, repeating the same with his own blankets and settling down with his own pack to root through.

“Any plans for supper? I’ve only got scrib jerky and hackle-lo here.”

“No.” He didn’t feel it necessary to stock up for what would likely only be a day’s trip out to the middle of nowhere…is the answer he’ll give, if Julan presses further. In truth, they were a bit low on drakes after purchasing new weapons and armor Julan insisted he’d need for his “mission” and camping supplies for the arduous journey ahead, and he felt it easier to temporarily endure an empty stomach than risk a permanently empty wallet.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I’m asleep,” Servyn grumbles, once again muffled through his blankets.

“Oh. Okay then.”

He hears the gravelly sound of shoes to dirt followed by the rustling of supplies—specifically, the loosening of a bow from its harness and a quiver’s sash thrown over the shoulder.

“I’ll be gone for a bit; see if I can find some game. You’ll be alright here by yourself?”

 _He’s an ashlander. He can handle himself out there._ Fatigue suppresses what would have been a furious insistence he stay at the camp…or offering to join. Either way, Julan takes the following silence as an answer in itself, and the rhythm of disappearing footsteps swallowed by raging ash winds lulls Servyn to sleep.

_The bells ring._

_The bells! The bells! They serenade your arrival, be it in spirit only._

_Nerevar! You approach once more, to the holy land—where it began, where it ended…and where it will start anew! Once more I must bear the agony of turning you away. Is this possible? For me to shun you, to tell you that it is still not yet time for our fated reuniting? Will my words stop you, for our allegiance was a sacred ceremony—entwined in purity, unsullied by conflict? Or will they guide you, for, as I suffer upon a throne half-occupied, so too do you mourn for our unjust separation?_

_Down both paths I grieve, for our time is not now. It is for your own good that I decree this truth, for only through undying devotion may I set aside my selfish desires to see my you once more. And undying it is, for I have endured the passing of many incarnations, many lifetimes, all failures, for the one that will finally bring you back to my arms. Nerevar! I will wait once more, but…my friend. This new form you wear does not fill me with confidence. Through silent weeping, I will wait for your next life. Can’t be long until this one expires._

A few hours passed since Servyn dozed off until now, where he abruptly awakens in a cold sweat, chest pounding and breathing frantic despite the absence of any immediate danger. The only culprit he could think of was the dream he had, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember exactly what it was about outside of everything being red, and the same voice from the previous nightmare speaking to him about…something. It didn’t matter. It was only a dream, after all.

“Oh. Good morning.”

Julan sits by a meager campfire nearby, stirring a wooden ladle through the small travel-sized kettle he thought they wouldn’t need, but is thankfully seeing use. Concern paints his face.

"Are you alright? You were tossing and turning quite a bit, but I didn't want to wake you up. Seemed like you needed the rest."

_It was only a silly dream. Julan will think me a fool for being so afraid of a dream!_

Servyn clears his throat. “Er…yes! I’m fine. I woke up because…”

The aroma of simmering meat and ash yam summons a low grumble from his midsection; for once he’s happy to latch on to such embarrassment, as it means pushing any thought or mention of the dream away.

“Hungry! I woke up because I’m hungry. What kind of stew is this? It smells wonderful; may I have a bowl?”

Julan nods, retrieving an empty bowl from their supplies. It wasn’t a lie—he _is_ hungry, though the look on his friend’s face as he hands him a helping of stew tells him they both know this isn’t the full truth.

“Kagouti. Big one, too. It’s a shame—one of those beasts could easily feed an entire tribe, but I couldn’t take all of it back by myself. Guess I’m doing my part by feeding the local scavenging wildlife.”

Servyn blinks. He should’ve expected Julan to be a competent hunter, being an ashlander and all. Still, a part of him is both impressed and relieved his friend made it back in one piece.

“It’s pretty silly, but did I tell you that it was a strange dream that convinced me to come out here?”

Prickling a bit, Servyn brings a piping hot spoon to his mouth, blowing on it as if completely calm and disinterested. Julan continues, despite the lack of response.

“Erm, sort of. The dream didn’t explicitly tell me to quit training and take on the mountain right away. It’s just…what happened in it, _who_ I saw; it reminded me that the circumstances of my mission are too dire to dawdle about, wondering when I’m ready to face destiny. I know it must sound mad, wholeheartedly listening to one’s dreams like that. But some dreams feel all too real, like they’re more than just night terrors, you know?”

“Dreamfs are juf dreamfs,” Servyn dismisses, keeping his focus on scarfing down stew. Julan frowns, as if this were an undesired response and returns to his own bowl. 

"Whafs wrongf?" He says this more out of curiosity than anything. Why would Julan be upset with a response like that? They _are_ just dreams.

“I just thought maybe Il-Tei was right—we _are_ secretive with eachother, and…I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t be. I’m not good at this small talk thing either, okay?”

Servyn swallows, dumbfounded. Of all the reasons he could think of as to why Julan seemed disappointed, this was not one of them. Now he wishes he didn't ask at all.

“What in Oblivion would you want to know about me? I’m an outlander wizard doing odd jobs for an odd man. Isn’t that enough?” Servyn spoons a large helping for himself, chewing slowly so as not to be asked to speak again right away.

“Well,” Julan begins, unyielding to his deflections, “you said you’re originally from the mainland, right? Then you lived in the Imperial City. Now you’re here.”

The chewing continues, without so much as a grumble in acknowledgement. Though it’s not intended as a hostile silence, Julan gives a sad sigh as if it were one.

“It’s a sore spot, fine. It’s just…after you talked about living on the streets, I was just curious if things got better for you. Bad as the Empire is, I’d imagine moving to such a… _grossly decadent_ place like that must’ve been a step up in life, and if that’s so, then I’m curious as to why you decided to come here, to Vvardenfell of all places.”

“I thought you loved your homeland. Almost sounds like you’re insulting it, the way you compare it to the Imperial City.”

“Of course _I_ like it here. Sheogorath, as bad as ash storms are, even they feel more comfortable than the big cities…in the sense of familiarity. It just seems weird that a settled mer would come here. Life in Vvardenfell isn’t exactly _easy_.”

Servyn stares into his soup, not sure what to say. Julan resumes to his own bowl, resigning to the end of their conversation, until Servyn, after much internal debating, restarts it.

“It wasn’t much better in the Imperial City. I used to be…” Julan stares wide-eyed, as if expecting him to say something grand.

“An apprentice. To a very powerful and wealthy wizard.”

The wide eyes remain, though are surprised for a completely different reason. “An apprentice? _You_?”

The lie was twisted enough to be true, Servyn thought. Surely Julan didn’t need to know the true nature of his “apprenticeship”.

“Yes. I met my master in Narsis. He took me in off the streets, said he was headed to a better place. We moved to the Imperial City. I worked for him—chores, preparing tea, running errands, that kind of thing, and in exchange he let me live with him. It was hard work, but it meant a roof over my head and a full belly every day.”

“That’s…not a bad life, I guess. This master of yours must’ve been a kind man, rescuing you from homelessness like that.”

“No.” Servyn replies instinctually, reminiscing on memories of their meeting in the mainland. He was a bony thing back then, easily mistaken for a walking skeleton wearing the vague appearance of a dunmer adolescent. So funny was this appearance to the rich locals that, at the simple plea for a coin, but one coin for a bowl of gruel, all would burst into laugher and very audible jingling from their pockets as they cry “The skeleton wants a bowl of gruel! But skeletons don’t need to eat; the boy is pulling our leg for a skooma hit!”

Arvosi was among these men. Reveling in the show, he produced something from his supplies—not coins, but a knapsack, and tossed it onto a nearby awning.

“Urchin,” he said with the commanding voice of a master. “There’s food in that pack. “If you’re truly so hungry, you should have no problem climbing up there for a meal.”

So clear were those words still. Even more clear was the memory of the men’s wide eyed faces, for Servyn knew a weak Levitation spell that was just strong enough to get him up to the awning. And then he ate. He ate everything in the satchel, no matter how much his thin body protested it. By the time he flew down, only Arvosi remained.

“Perhaps you’re not a mere skeleton after all,” he chuckled with a discerning eye at the young mer that struggled to support the new weight of his distended stomach. All he remembered after that was being told he’d “do nicely”, and that if he wished to be fed and off the streets, he’d answer to the name of Servant and obey him as his master—stated as an order rather than a proposition. He wasn’t lying—it _was_ a hard life. It was thankless, harsh, and lonely work—at the end of the day, food was there. Food was always there to cheer him up.

In fact, what was he doing thinking about the past when he could enjoy kagouti stew in the present? He returns to his bowl, almost successful in pushing the memories back into the abyss before Julan, who had been staring at him expectantly the whole time speaks up.

“So…your master _wasn’t_ a good person?”

_You could always tell the truth. You don’t have a master's reputation to protect anymore. But he will keep asking questions, if you’re honest…_

“He was alright. He…I mean, working for a wizard is arduous work. Alchemy reagents don’t gather themselves!”

“Mm, suppose not. Thanks for telling me, Servyn. Despite everything we’ve been through, it felt odd to know so little about you.”

Fumbling for another spoonful of stew and finding his bowl empty, Servyn thinks desperately for something to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Well, I could say the same! You haven't even told me why you’re so eager to delve into Red Mountain!”

The question simmered in his mind the moment he met Julan. After the first incident at the mountain went so badly, it seemed the ashlander wouldn’t dare attempt to take on the blighted lands again, let alone so soon…and yet, here they were. He expected said ashlander would protest just as much as he always had, deflecting with nothing more than a dismissive “you wouldn’t understand”. What he didn’t expect was the taller mer to suddenly down the rest of his stew and curl up into his bedroll.

“We probably won’t see eachother again, once we part ways at the mountain. Just…leave it at that, okay? It’s better that you don’t know.”

Julan rolls over to face away from him, ending a conversation that, for once, Servyn wanted to see through until the end.

“Now just hold on a moment! I’ve opened up about myself, and still you won’t even tell me why we are—for the _second_ time, mind you—approaching a giant active volcano?”

“Why _I'm_ approaching a giant active volcano—you didn’t have to come with me. And now that makes six times I’ve repeated myself. Goodnight!”

Silence falls upon the two mer. With a huff, Servyn rolls over in his own bed to face away from Julan. _Fine. Keep your secrets. We’ll never see eachother after tomorrow anyway._

Even through the forest of towering spires surrounding Red Mountain, the Ghostfence stands tall and oppressive, shimmering with magic protective light that, though near transparent in its appearance, is perfectly solid. From where Servyn and Julan stand, the tip of the barrier is nowhere near in sight.

“Are you sure you can do this? I’m starting to think we’d have better luck wrestling through Armigers at the temple gate.”

_Maybe if you say no, he’ll suggest travelling to Ghostgate. That’d buy you another day with—_

Pushing such thoughts away, Servyn puts on his best confident nod. “I’ve flown higher—we’ll be fine. Hold on to my back and don’t let go until we’ve landed.”

Julan approaches, though pauses to contemplate exactly how he ought to hang on to his friend, given the height difference. Servyn sighs, though not out of offense.

“It’ll be fine. Drape yourself over me if you must—the magic will easily lift us up.”

“It’s not that. It’s just…that doesn’t sound comfortable for either of us.” After a few moments of pondering, Julan brightens with an idea, and wraps his arms around Servyn’s waist, lifting him off the ground. “There. Can you still fly with me holding on like this?”

Servyn answers with his palms rather than his words. In a sea of violet light, they burst into the air, gliding through ash and clouds effortlessly like a dreugh sailing through raging ocean currents. At first, Julan holds on to Servyn for dear life, though quickly realizes the sheer strength of the spell’s residue particles granting him a weightless feeling he thought only possible in the many times he used to daydream about what it must feel like to be a cliff racer soaring the ashland skies. Their upward flight ends as, after several minutes of flying, they reach the apex of the Ghostfence, signifying they made it, and can now descend into the fiery red earth below. This descent, in the same manner of a horker diving into icy depths, rockets below just as swiftly as the ascension, and ends in an explosion of dust and gravel. Despite the destructive landing, both mer emerge from the debris completely unharmed, save for the shorter of the two panting and coughing from the world of smoke and cinder that surrounds them.

“I can’t believe it—we made it! And we’re okay!”

_Yeah. I guess we’re okay. Physically. You’re okay._

As the dust clears, a path forward—a bare gash amidst the expanse of uneven fanged rocks that make up most of the surrounding area around Red Mountain reveals itself. With a deep breath and a puffed up chest, Julan turns around.

“Well…I guess this is goodbye. Or are you actually going to stick around until I survive a few steps on my own?”

_Stick around longer._

_No, stick around shorter. Let him do what he wants—it’s none of your business anymore._

“You’re really going to just…march towards the mountain? Right now?”

“Yes. Like I said, thanks for everything—training, getting us over the Ghostfence, being a good friend, and all that. Maybe we’ll see eachother around someday.”

Julan strides forward, not looking back. It doesn’t take long for a second pair of footsteps crunching into the ash to approach close behind.

“What do you mean _maybe_!? Just how close do you plan to get to the _giant volcano_ , anyway? Goodness knows what business you have here in the first place, but it doesn’t sound like the kind of thing one easily walks away from alive!”

Julan still doesn’t turn around. “First of all, it’s been more than a few steps already, and as you can see I’m perfectly fine. Second, and I have said this _many_ times already—“

“That you can’t talk about it? That I won’t understand?” Anger, despite it being such a foreign emotion to Servyn, flows out of him like a torrential current with no sign of stopping. “This mission—whatever it’s for, _whoever_ it’s for; surely it isn’t so important as to disappear into a fiery death, never to be seen again!”

“I said we _probably_ won’t see eachother again after we part ways. Not that we _never_ will.” Julan’s grim gaze towards Red Mountain as he speaks doesn’t fill Servyn with confidence. “Besides, the fact that you think I’m here because some deranged s’wit sent me to do this, like you do with your odd jobs for Caius is proof you _don’t_ , and _will not_ understand. Now, if I recall correctly, you have another ashlander in Ald-ruhn to meet with.”

Both mer continue forward, trudging through increasingly deep piles of ash littering the untraveled and unknown road leading towards Red Mountain. Conversation (if it can be called that) between the two amounts to no more than coughing fits as never-ending gusts of cinder rampages against them—as if they needed any more of a sign that they should turn back; not that either of them will, so long as Julan remains steadfast in his journey.

“Should’ve bought a thicker scarf…” Servyn mutters to himself, though he struggles to hear even his own voice through the storm.

“Gods, if you’re going to insist on following me, the least you can do is be quiet!”

Servyn blinks—not from ash getting into his eyes. “You really heard me mention scarves just now?”

“What? Scarves? That’s not what you… Ugh, nevermind!”

_Fine. I won’t even ask myself anything, if you’re going to be like that. Is this what you want? To tread silently towards the mountain for no reason whatsoever—_

“Really now, I can’t hear you, if you’re going to whisper like that!”

For a second time, Servyn blinks. He’s sure there’s no form of magic that allows for telepathy—not that he knew of, anyway. He certainly didn’t think Julan of all people would know it, if it exists.

“I didn’t say anything that time. And I can barely hear you when you shout, so how in Oblivion are you hearing whispers?”

“Bah, you liar! I know I heard something—why are you still following me, anyway!?”

He could ask the same question himself—answering it was a different matter entirely. Nevertheless, he presses onward, until Julan suddenly turns around to face him, eyes wide with fury.

“STOP DOING THAT!!”

“Doing _what_!?” Servyn can’t help but recoil out of…defense? Concern? Julan whips back around, stomping with invigorated determination.

“If this is some kind of dumb game you’re playing to intimidate me off the mountain…well, then you're...dumb! Because it’s not working! Just…STOP IT, alright?”

Without giving a single moment for Servyn to retort, Julan stops once more, though instead of turning around, he crumbles to the ground on his knees, clasping his head. Servyn gasps, readying a healing spell in his palms, though Julan swats his hands away before the spell makes contact.

“GET AWAY! GET OUT OF—STOP!”

“Jul—“

“No! That’s NOT true! That’s not—I _am_ Indoril Nerevar reborn, and I will _not_ bow down to—“

One last attempt to bring his healing hands to the screaming mer’s body misses him entirely, as Julan’s limp body falls into the ash with a weak cry in pain. Attempting and succeeding in casting a spell one last time does nothing to rouse him from what Servyn desperately hoped wasn’t a permanent slumber.

“Julan,” he chuckles—a maniacal voice-cracked chuckle, “Come now, is this your idea of payback, for making you feel paranoid? I didn’t mean to do that—I really _didn’t_ say anything!”

Nor does his friend in response. Of all the things causing a heightened beating in his heart and a shortness of breath, it certainly isn’t the burning heat of their close proximity with Red Mountain, nor the unrelenting gusts (which by this point is more ash than breathable air).

_I can teleport us back to the Temple. He’ll be safe there._

_But there’s no telling how he’ll react to the spell, in this state. What if he can’t handle it?_

_Fortify it is._

Even with the aid of Fortify Strength, Julan’s significant height against Servyn’s made it difficult to walk, as the taller mer couldn’t entirely slump over him without his legs dragging on the ground. Nevertheless, Servyn presses forward, one foot thrust into the ankle-deep ash after another as he refreshes the spell more times than probably necessary—one can never tell. Fortify isn’t a gradual degradation, after all.


	13. Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, very sorry for the hiatus, am hoping to be able to stay back in the saddle for a long while :'p Either way, thank you for the patience :'O

The past few hours were, of course, just that—a few hours. To Servyn, it feels like a few years, as sulking in bed with nothing to do but dwell in a pit of anxiety tends to feel like.

He flops over to his right side, for he’d lain dormant on his left for too long, to face a still passed out Julan. In an instant he’s overcome with the desire to return back to the soreness of lying against his left side, because _he’s been here before_ —physically and mentally, in the sense of once again being confined to the Ghostgate communal waiting, with bated breath, for his friend to awaken from a temporary unconsciousness at best, or death at worst. Almost, but not quite as overwhelming, is the soreness in his own body, having carried the ashlander for miles through treacherous uncertainty in Red Mountain wasteland only to endure a worse soreness in his ego, having to beg the same Buoyant Armigers who not too long ago tried to stop them from trespassing into the mountain, to _please open the gates and let them back in, yes I know we were stupid to disobey your rules, I didn’t want to—okay fine, yes, I get it, this is all my fault, can you PLEASE—_

Thinking about it only made the walls close in faster—as if worrying for Julan’s health didn’t already expedite that enough. As much as his back protested it, he flops back to his left side to face the wall, closes his eyes, and tries to doze off into a nap. At the end of the day, there was rest. There is always (unfulfilling) rest.

A clink of ceramic on wood followed by a stern “Drink” rouses him up. The elderly healer—the same woman who tended to their burn wounds the last time they were here—leaves with a huff. Though she hadn’t said it out loud, her demeanor speaks clearly: “You two idiots were here not long ago, and now you’re here again, banged up and needing of the Three’s nurturing arms! Why can’t you just stay out of trouble?”

Servyn picks up a teacup—it’s scathing, but he doesn’t care—to take a sip and look to his friend across from him, still motionless and sprawled on the bed. _Yeah, why can’t we stay out of trouble? Why do you keep getting us in trouble? Why do I keep going along with it?_

As if to answer questions he didn’t vocalize at all, Julan twitches with a groan as Servyn jolts in response.

“Ungh…where…?” Julan squints and rubs his eyes, swatting away something blurry (which happened to be Servyn shuffling over to his bedside and offering a hand) attempting to support his head up. That was okay. Julan seemed to recollect his senses very quickly.

“We’re…back in Ghostgate?”

_Yes. I carried you for miles walking through an ash storm raging backwards, only to endure the old healer’s barking that “the two idiot travelers are back”._

Servyn nods.

More blinking. “…How did we get here?”

_Painfully._

“It’s not important.”

“But—“ he begins, though shudders and grasps his head at the effort it takes to sit up. “Gods, my head…everything feels all mixed up. I was dreaming, I think…we were climbing the mountain—“

“We _were_ climbing the mountain, yes. Against my better judgment—as it should’ve been against yours, too!”

Julan shakes his head.

“Yeah, obviously I wouldn’t think to fly over a magic gate and walk into a volcano unless it was important, Servyn.”

“E-even if it was…” he stutters for more charitable words than the “Are you insane? Do you even hear what you’re saying right now?” he _wants_ to blurt, but is only able to muster: “What exactly was so important, that simply needed you to challenge the mountain head on like that?”

Julan’s gaze drops to the floor. It is not a shy gaze, but one of frustration, as if he expects Servyn to discount it as unbelievable once he reveals it.

“Well… I was going to see Dagoth Ur.”

“Dagoth…huh?” Servyn felt he’d heard the name before—Julan spoke of it once, but he never got around to asking who this was. “You mentioned that name after we left Red Mountain the first time, that he’s the one who tried to talk to you.”

“The second time too, that was also him. He’s the devil; an evil…man, monster, I don’t know what; all that matters is so long as he lives, the world as we know it is in danger.

“….And you know this…how?”

“ _Sheogorath_ , Servyn! You don’t know _anything_ about—“ Julan suddenly stops to bury his head in his hands, either by the sensibility to not snap at his friend or by the spike of pain in his head (the latter, Servyn guesses) with a deep sigh. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter—I couldn’t handle the Mountain, _again_. I failed.”

Julan curls in tighter in bed, in the same manner of a mudcrab retreating into its shell to hide from the world. Servyn knew the feeling all to well and could never judge anyone from succumbing under the turmoil that comes from _just being alive_ —yet it was usually _him_ doing the withdrawing, not Julan, and there was something deeply unsettling about the stronger of the two crumbling into a state of utter depression.

“Er, surely it’s not so hopeless! I mean, at least now you don’t have to confront this Dagoth Ur, who you said is very evil and possibly a monster that will possibly destroy the world. With a description like that, you probably would’ve been killed on the spot; but now you don’t have to do that and you can just…live your life!”

He can’t see it, but Julan’s scowl deepens.

“Maybe I should just go back home and herd guar. Seems that’s all I’m good for.”

“Guar herding sounds like a fine profession! There’s no shortage of them here in Vvardenfell after all, and they don’t actually eat Dunmer, regardless of what _some_ people would tell you. A fine profession indeed!”

Julan doesn’t look up, nor so much as chuckles at Servyn’s admittedly terrible attempt at optimism. Really, all he has left is his usual doom and gloom, and perhaps if he were a wiser mer, he would know right now he ought to shut up and leave the taller mer be. If only.

“I’m sorry Julan, I don’t know what to say. Maybe I don’t understand what all this sacred mission stuff is—maybe there’s truly no _maybe_ about that, and I just plain don’t understand _anything_. But what I _do_ understand is you’re not a failure.”

Servyn ends this sentence as if intending to follow it up with a flowery and inspiring speech listing off all the impressive things Julan has said, done, and survived in the short time they’ve know each other to prove he indeed _isn’t_ a failure, but the words don’t come. Not for lack of things to say—Servyn has certainly seen with his own eyes how Julan threw himself at the mountain twice now, and survived both times. He’s experienced firsthand the ashlander’s perseverance against overwhelming odds, both in his dedication to carry out this sacred mission (however ludicrous it sounds) and in his unwavering friendship for someone so worthless and unimportant as Servyn himself. In the end, that was the issue—himself. Where Julan had so many times before been able to vocalize meaningful words into rallying inspiration that cures even the deepest spells of self loathing, Servyn just…couldn’t. Not even when his friend needs it the most.

Julan unfurls a bit from his cocoon to look Servyn in the eyes. He must’ve secretly been a master Mystic capable of reading minds this whole time, as the taller mer attempts a soft smile as if he’d heard those unspoken words.

“Thank you, Servyn. One of us believes in me, at least. But…what now?”

Now it’s his turn to withdraw into blankets like a mudcrab.

“O-other than leaving Ghostgate as soon as we can, before the healer comes back to scold us again? I don’t know.”

“Gods!” Julan hops out of bed, invigorated at the mention of the healer. “That woman’s going to feed us that horrible saltrice porridge again—we’ve got to leave right now!”

Servyn tries to obey Julan’s orders, but whimpers at the pain shooting through his still sore limbs. He collapses back into the pillow, as Julan frowns with the look of one who wants to ask why his friend is in so much pain, but already has a few guesses as to why—all of which involve him being the cause. Sighing, he sits back down on the edge of his own bed.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll risk enduring the saltrice porridge again _just this once_ , for you. If anything, I guess it gives us more time to think about what we should do next.”

“Are you talking about more training?” Servyn tries not to whine, but in all honesty he wasn’t very enthused about the idea of more…whatever they were doing before. It didn’t quite feel like training, but Julan _said_ he learned something, so who really knows.

“Well, we _should_ still do that. But I was thinking of…something else. About new input—don’t get me wrong, you’ve been a lot of help, but I think…” Julan sighs, muttering about how he “really didn’t want to have to do this” and inhales before revealing his plan, as if bracing to deliver some unfortunate news.

“I should ask my mother for advice. It’s not a short trip—we live up north, on the coast. We can get back to Ald-ruhn no problem, take a strider to someplace with boats—Vos is the closest town; we could even stop by and pick up something nice for her, to soothe her temper. She won’t like what she hears, that’s for sure. But it’s also right on the shores, which if we follow northward, it will take us home. It’s just getting _to_ Vos that’ll…”

Julan’s words gradually extinguish at the growing dread and uneasiness sewed into Servyn’s face.

“Ahem, well. You’ve done more than enough helping me into the mountain—twice. You said you had business to take care of in Ald-ruhn, right? We can part ways there, if you wa—“

“No!” Servyn cries without thinking, causing them both to recoil at the unexpected outburst.

“I-I mean, yes! Yes, I do have business to take care of in Ald-ruhn. Just…meeting with someone Caius wants notes from, for goodness knows what reason. That shouldn’t take long.”

“Another ashlander, so you said.”

“Um, I think his name is Hassour…”

Julan perks up a bit. “Hassour Zainsubani? I’ve seen him around Ald-ruhn, though we don’t know each other well. Either way, I know where to look for him; it’s the least I can do for you. Then—“

“ _Then_ , I come with you.” Servyn speaks, for once, without a single falter in his voice. “Caius can wait; it’s you I worry about, getting into no small amount of trouble and what not!” These words weren’t entirely spoken untruthfully—Julan _did_ seem to get himself wrapped up in all sorts of predicaments, and clearly intended to keep doing so with this “sacred mission” of his.

“You know, I’m not the _only_ walking disaster between the two of us,” Julan retorts, though with a corner of his mouth etched into a soft smile.

“You certainly _will_ be, if you don’t drink this,” Servyn holds up the teacup he’d been sipping at, and glances at the second untouched cup—probably cold, by now. Julan scoffs.

“You really think horrible tasting tea is going to help at all? I’m fine!”

“The healer will be upset if you don’t. She may even order you to rest here longer if you refuse!”

Julan plops back into bed in a huff. “Bah, the damn porridge will do that for me—make me sick, that’s what.” In the end, as stubborn as the ashlander is, he’s not stupid; after a few moments he sits up to take the second teacup, grumbling with every sip. As uncertain and grim as the coming days will be, Servyn can at least take solace in the fact that his friend has enough energy to be petulant—it’s very _Julan_. Finally, he thinks: a return to normalcy.

Julan bursts through the Vos tradehouse to front door as Servyn mutters a defeated “Thank you, sera” to the finely garbed Dunmer trader they’d spent the past half hour bartering with, shambling through the front parlor towards the exit without so much as a grin on his face (or even a neutral expression, for that matter) despite the deal with the merchant being, for the most part, successful. If he were being honest, he still felt seasick from the long boat trip from Sadrith Mora, which was preceded by an even longer trip on foot back to Ald-ruhn, then to Balmora by silt strider, to beg Il-Tei to authorize _just one more_ use of the Guild’s teleportation services to the nearest city to Vos—which _of course_ was a Telvanni haven! And of course this “Vos” is also under Telvanni jurisdiction, _because things weren’t already bad enough! Not at all!_

The winding gnarled root pathway down to solid ground from the tradehouse is admittedly prone to slips and tumbles, though this risk doesn’t deter Julan’s invigorated mood infecting his stride with gleeful skips and steps, and by no time he’s rejoined the rest of society on the lower marketplace amidst the Vos docks.

“Phew, that takes care of that! Quite the pretty trinket in fact—I’m sure mother will love it! Don’t you think, Servyn?”

Servyn tentatively steps down the pathway with a deep frown wrought in his face, burying their coin pouch in his satchel—a coin patch that’s been reduced to nothing more than a flat empty cloth.

“We’re lucky the man sold it to us in the first place, given we were still short after selling everything just shy the clothes off our backs!”

“Well,” Julan reassures, tentatively slipping the amulet into Servyn’s satchel, “I told you your Charm spell would work.”

“That’s not—I could’ve hit someone else with it!” The last time he used such a spell may have worked out well, but Servyn wouldn’t dare ruminate on what could’ve happened if it hit any of the patrolling guards or patrons who would most certainly realize they must’ve been Charmed, and who else could’ve done it but the mage who just walked in? Gods forbid, if it hit himself—he might’ve given all of their things to the merchant for free!

“Whatever. Besides, we won’t need money where we’re going,” Julan trails off, not towards the nearby farming town of Vos, but towards the Grazelands wilderness. “I know the way, just stay close and don’t wander off—especially not towards any large ashlander camps.”

“What? Why not?” Servyn pants, struggling to keep up with his friend’s confident pacing with his much shorter legs, until said friend realizes this and adjusts his stride accordingly. Able to catch his breath, he continues: “Aren’t all ashlanders…I don’t know, maybe not _friends_ , necessarily, but surely they’d be able to help us out if we run out of supplies or get caught in a storm without any shelter, _because we had no money to buy any_ —“

“Just…trust me on this.”

With no further explanation, the pair walks in relative silence, save for the disappearing ambience of townsfolk as they wander further into the mildly breezy wickwheat fields of the wild Grazelands. He could, Servyn thinks, just turn back right now, retreating from the inevitability of sleeping rough, eating sparsely, and constantly fearing an ambush from hostile wildlife to the slightly cozier life of begging for work in town. _You could, but you won’t._

“Oh, don’t look so upset. You liked my kagouti stew the last time we camped out—we may even find guar out here! Cook that with some wild saltrice and some hackle-lo…”

“Can we not talk about food, after we’ve been left completely broke with no supplies?” Not that talking about something else would distract him from wondering what they—or more likely, _he_ will have to do to keep them off the streets when they return to Balmora. Or if. They may find themselves gobbled up by a giant kagouti out here, for all he knows.

Passing by a hackle-lo plant, Servyn plucks as many ripe leaves as he can find and nibbles on it, offering a bundle to Julan.

“Ah. Maybe I shouldn’t—can’t really talk well if I’m chewing.”

“Talf?” Servyn, all too eager to wolf down as much as he can, graciously stuffs the bundle into his already full mouth. Julan chuckles, but quickly grows stern.

“Yeah. I was thinking, and…I shouldn’t put it off anymore. You ought to know the whole story—why we’re out here, why we’re seeing my mother, all of it.”

Servyn blinks. Whether it was an invitation for Julan to spill everything right now or not, he gestures the shorter mer to sit with him on a nearby rock. They both collapse with a sigh—Servyn being grateful for the opportunity for a short rest, and Julan mentally preparing to reveal things he never imagined revealing to anyone before.

“The first thing you ought to know is my mother isn’t really my mother—not by birth, anyway. She found me in the wilderness, after Azura sent her a dream to follow a black kagouti into the Grazelands.”

Julan looks to Servyn for confirmation that he was listening, only to be met with a scrutinizing stare.

“Don’t look at me like that; I know it sounds strange, but…no-one knows who my real parents are. It doesn’t matter. The point is: Azura sent her to find me and raise me to be a great warrior because according to Her, I had an important destiny.”

“Azura?” Servyn asks, swallowing to speak. It’s a name he vaguely remembers in what little fragments of memory from his childhood still lingers, unwanted yet unrelenting in his psyche. His ma was quite a religious woman, and expected no less devotion from her children—the ones she cared about, anyway. The most Servyn can recollect are the names of the Tribunal and their Anticipations—this “Azura” was one of them, right?

“Sheogorath, how long did you spend assimilating into Empire culture? You’re not seriously telling me you don’t know who Azura is, are you?”

“I know she sent your ma a dream to follow dubious wildlife to find you and fulfill a destiny. What about it?”

“It wasn’t just…that.” Julan frowns, seemingly unsure whether to settle in anger or sadness. “Mother said she willed her to a life in exile, so that she may focus all her efforts into raising me. We lived with a big tribe back then, and I didn’t want to believe she was serious, but…”

“But…?” Servyn tries after a few moments of silence, offering Julan to continue if he still wished.

“I don’t know the details of what really happened—mother never speaks of it. All I knew was she upset some important people in the tribe, and ever since we’ve lived in exile on the northern ashland coasts by ourselves.”

Julan stops, a wistful stare into nothingness giving Servyn enough concern to wonder if he was alright. As if noticing said concern, Julan snaps back into reality.

“It’s okay. She was right; the message Azura sent her, the prophecy I was meant to fulfill—my sacred mission, it all made sense. Do you remember the mural? The one outside of the Vivec City temple?”

“The Ordinator?” Servyn asks, though receives a harsh frown in return.

“ _Indoril Nerevar_ , Servyn. The greatest war chief and leader of the Dunmer in all of Morrowind’s history.” He pauses again, as one last hesitation towards whether or not the shorter mer really could be trusted with such sensitive information. With a deep sigh, he continues.

“Azura foretold Nerevar’s spirit would one day return in the form of another, known as the Nerevarine, destined to destroy Dagoth Ur and bring peace to Morrowind. That Nerevarine is me.”

Moments that feel like years—to both mer—form like a thick fog, suffocating the two of them, though for different reasons: Julan weighing the chances of how insane Servyn must think he is, and Servyn wondering just how many eggshells he’d have to step over just saying anything at all—awe, disbelief, questions; they all seemed just as likely to upset his friend.”

“Look,” Julan cuts in, “I know it sounds crazy and hard to believe—I didn’t believe it for a long time either. But Azura wills it, so it shall be.”

Questions, Servyn hopes, is a safe path forward.

“How do you know that? Gods are…well, they’re _gods_ , Julan. When have you ever heard of gods actually speaking to someone personally?”

“It…wasn’t to me, specifically. She speaks to my mother through dreams and visions. That’s why we’re visiting her—I need guidance, and she’ll know exactly what to do because she can communicate with Azura, and Azura knows all.”

“I...see.” It all sounded ludicrous to Servyn, though which sounded the most implausible, he couldn’t quite decide: reincarnated old heroes, saving the world, and now gods who _actually talk to their subjects_? Frankly, he didn’t believe any of it.

“So…what you’re saying is you’re quite an important person. Shouldn’t the…I don’t know, important government people know about this? Surely saving all of Morrowind is in everyone’s interest—“

“Sheogorath, _NO_.” Julan glares in, once again, a glare that says Servyn ought to know exactly why his words are stupid, but of course he doesn’t, and Julan must explain the obvious once more. “Don’t you know “government people” here means the Temple? They persecute those who believe in the Nerevarine prophecies—the truth—as cultists and throw them in jail! Us, a _cult_ , just because we know the Tribunal are false gods who stole their power—“

“Okay, I get it! I’ll keep your secret, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Julan sighs with relief. Both return their gazes forward, with many unfilled blanks left by Julan’s wild confessions as to what he was really up to this whole time. It all seemed quite grand and important for a seemingly unknown ashlander like Julan, and questions of “What does it all mean?” and “Will it stop you from helping him, whether you understand it or not?” fight for dominance in his mind—for once, even moreso than the question of “What are we going to do about supper?”

Servyn begins to wonder, as he’s lost track of the hours they’ve spent travelling the Grazelands wilderness, if Julan truly knows where they’re going—not just because nightfall has long since enveloped the land in pure darkness, but of the trouble and unconventional scenery they’ve passed along the way. An unexpected run-in with hostile well armed “guar hide traders” (so they claimed) was one thing—probably not something Julan intended to take them through, and at the very least, not too difficult to run away from. Passing through beaches dangerously close to daedra-infested ruins with the reassurance that “yes, we’re going the right way, just ignore the ruins; the cultists usually stay inside anyway” was an entirely different thing Servyn absolutely did not sign up for, and didn’t think he’d have to vocalize something any sane person would be against stepping anywhere near, but…here he was.

Sundown in the northern ashland coasts is a meeting of two voids: an inky black sea against an abyssal murky sky concealing what little moonlight one can hope for through wispy veils of gray clouds. Servyn can only barely make out his shoes upon the ground, let alone anything resembling a camp in the distance…that is, until a cluster of stakes with skulls upon their tops comes immediately into view, so sudden and unexpected that he nearly runs into them. Hardly a squeak leaves his throat before Julan shushes him frantically and allows the shorter mer to collapse into his chest, a nervous wreckage of rapid breathing.

“Don’t scream; she might think you’re an intruder!” After allowing Servyn to calm down, Julan situates himself between the camp’s entrance and his friend. “The skull is just a decoration. Mother is…a bit eccentric with her tastes, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ll enter her yurt first, tell her I brought a friend she can trust, then you can come in and we can do proper introductions from there. Easy enough, yeah?”

“Sure! Yes! _Easy_!”

Each crunching step upon shell-ridden sand towards the vague shape of a yurt hardly outlined with a thin rim of moonlight heightens the beating of Servyn’s heart—he almost wished Julan could hear it and change his mind about bringing him along, but they continue on, stopping only for his friend to push the cloth entrance to the yurt aside as light from within spills out before them. What awaits is a remarkably homely dwelling of burning incense, alchemic herbs and equipment (both strung upon the wooden frames and situated into its own neatly arranged corner) and miscellaneous pillows, bedding, and other such furnishings one would not expect to find in a yurt housing a woman—not quite elderly, given her dark hair, though Servyn can’t quite tell due to her sitting upon a small rug with her back turned and posture hunched over in prayer. She doesn’t turn around nor seem concerned with their sudden presence, despite surely knowing _somebody_ has entered her home.

“You’ve returned, Julan.”

Servyn hears Julan gulp. It takes a few moments for him to speak up.

“I have, yes. I’ve…been training—a lot.”

“Mm.”

Silence. The question of whether Servyn ought to make a run for it now, or if doing so would only alert the woman to his presence faster churns in his mind; judging by the look in his friend’s face, he’d wager they’re both, for once, on the same page.

“Um. But you see, I haven’t done it all alone. I had someone help me!”

The woman doesn’t respond. Darting his gaze in hesitation towards whether now is the right moment to break the news, Julan clears his throat and plunges.

“That someone is with me right now, actually. I brought him—“

Before Julan finishes, the woman whips around like a hurricane, swift and harsh. The moment she spots the stranger peeking through the entrance, cowering behind the thick fabric, she bolts up with the speed and tenacity of a striking viper, with twice the venom in her voice.

“Who are you? What are you doing with my son!? I swear on Azura, if you’ve—“

“Mother, please. I’m fine—this is my friend Servyn. He’s—“

The woman marches over to take Julan into her arms, attempting to urge him aside to place herself between her son and the unknown mer passing himself off as a friend.

“Answer me, outlander! What business do you have with my family!?”

Julan resists, and replaces his position between his mother and a quivering wilting Servyn.

“It’s okay mother, I promise! Servyn—“ he gasps, spinning around to place his arms on his shoulders and guide him outside, “Why don’t you leave us alone for a bit? The yurt next to this one is a…guest yurt! Yes, why don’t you rest there for a while, light a fire, and get cozy. You’ll be sleeping there tonight, okay?”

He doesn’t give so much as nod before following Julan’s orders, and bolts out back onto the salty crisp air—running so fast, in fact, that he trips over a stone and tumbles into the damp seashell-ridden gravelly sand. This, he blames on not being able to see in the dark and being quite the unlucky mer, not at all because running from Julan’s mother felt akin to narrowly escaping a beating—of the emotional and physical variety, if his past experiences with his own mother was anything to go by.

Wiping the sand from his clothes the best he can, Servyn turns to the aforementioned guest yurt neighboring the woman’s yurt. Stepping inside, it looks more like a storage yurt than anything else, with the only resemblance of a living quarter being a measly fire pit and musky unmade bedroll—not that he had any complaints. This is miles better than street corners and dirt.

Lighting the fire with a weak fire spell, Servyn rummages through the pile of burlap sacks occupying the yurt’s walls to find a stash of ash yams. Julan didn’t explicitly say he was allowed to take any, but he _did_ say to get cozy, and right now cozy meant huddling by the fire with something to eat. The bedroll smells of a dubious stench and looked as if it hadn’t been touched or cleaned since its last occupant of goodness knows what origin, but it was decently plush (certainly moreso than the ground) and quite warm, coupled with the steadily growing fire. Three ash yams and a second diluted spell fed to the flames later, and he’s sufficiently comfortable enough to already feel himself drifting away before his head hits the pillow. A muffled argument heats up from the neighboring yurt, but he’s fast asleep before he’s able to wonder what it’s about or consider whether or not he should try to listen in. It probably isn’t any of his business anyway.

This night, as all others, does not pass as easily as one would hope for in a good night’s rest—it’s not disturbed by the usual strange dreams, but by a rustle of cloth, specifically of the yurt’s entrance being used. It doesn’t take much to rouse Servyn from his light slumber, thus he’s wide awake the moment this unexpected visitor enters the yurt. With a green glowing palm, the dwelling bursts aglow with light, revealing something he hadn’t expected at all, yet somehow more terrifying than the hungry mudcrab or cutthroat assassin he’d sooner suspect over Julan—without a shirt. As before, his friend is quick to shush the half-squeak that leaves the shorter mer’s throat before it turns into a proper yelp.

“Shush! You’ll disturb mother, screaming like that!”

“You’re the one sneaking into the guest yurt dressed like…well, _undressed_ like that!”

“What, you don’t feel the blistering Sun’s Height weather?” Julan snickers, to which Servyn curls back into his bedroll, clinging to what little heat he can find. Julan shakes his head, muttering something about “delicate Empire people accustomed to delicate weather” before sighing. “Really Servyn, you act as if you’ve never seen a man without a shirt.”

Collecting himself, Servyn speaks with a harsh whisper, anxious gaze trained in the direction of the neighboring yurt.

“I haven’t much, yeah—and I prefer to keep it that way!”

Julan chuckles. “Right, you’re a shirtless _women_ type—“

“NO!” Servyn burrows further into the bedroll. A purple light beams from within—Waterbreathing, as he intends to hide beneath the covers for quite a long time now. “I don’t like any of…that stuff! With shirts, without shirts, or pants, or what have you!”

Leaning against the wooden yurt frame, Julan raises an eyebrow.

“This from the mer who doesn’t wear pants himself!”

The lumpy bedroll stays silent, despite having more than a few questions to ask for his friend—none of which pertaining to pants, though many regarding what in Oblivion he’s doing here. All seemed quiet outside, as well as the nearby mother’s yurt, so surely whatever business he has this late at night couldn’t be too pressing.

“Is that because of your style? The whole “wise old wizard” getup?”

“What.” It’s muffled, but Servyn isn’t entirely able to hide the defensive tone in his voice.

“Well, you’ve got the old man facial hair—I guess that makes sense, if you want to look wise. Likewise, I’ve heard Telvanni don’t wear pants because wizards always wear big flamboyant robes that cover up their legs. When mother found out I started sneaking away trips to Vos, she used to say “Julan, if you see a Telvanni wizard flying about, never look up!” Because, well, you know…”

Servyn answers in kind by abruptly emerging from the bedroll, red in the face.

“Gods’ sake, Julan! I look this way because there’s no point in looking presentable, when people already assume the worst of you for your height and body! In fact, maybe I _like_ looking like an old man! Maybe a look no person born with natural white hair would ever dare to keep because it’s “ugly” and “looks silly on a young mer’s face” is one of the many reasons most people don’t want to talk to me—and _maybe_ I like that!”

“…Do you like that?”

The answer to this question has for a long time been a resounding yes. Even without allowing his facial hair to make him look like an elder, most would still laugh at him for being pudgy and short—the former of the two, though he may to a degree be able to fix, his height ensures he will never command an ounce of respect from a majority of the world’s population, no matter which province he’s in. Having a few undesirable features like being shorter and rounder than most is just enough for folks to harass without remorse—add an ugly face on top of that, and one achieves such a tragic disaster of an appearance that most feel too sorry to bother, as surely by that point just existing is punishment enough—and they’re right!

“Look, that’s not—what are you doing here so late at night? Surely you didn’t come here to talk about shirts and pants!”

The yurt grows silent. Julan mumbles under his breath, as if wanting to finally say what he actually came to say, but not quite knowing _how_ to say it.

“Well, after you left, mother and I decided it would be best for her to seek guidance directly from Azura. She’s busy doing that right now, I think. Something about performing rituals and incantations to summon her, so I can’t bother her right now…”

Servyn waits for a continuation that doesn’t come—not right away, anyway. Julan’s gaze drops to floor, as if hesitant to speak the rest of his mind, but knowing he has to.

“I…I think I’m going mad. I had another one of those dreams again, this one worst than the last. There were ash creatures! So many of them, standing around me and whispering things I couldn’t hear, but as they spoke, my skin…it…it started turning monstrous and sickly, and—“

Julan’s tone and posture crumbles as he recounts the nightmare, coercing Servyn to stand up proper and cast a Calm spell on his friend—it worked enough to stop him from hyperventilating, but not much more than that.

“It was just a dream, Julan. Everyone gets nightmares here and there, and as you can see, your skin is just fine!” Not that a simple affirmation that it was just a dream helped much, as Servyn knew all too well. In truth, he just didn’t think it appropriate to bring up his own experience, for fear of it coming off as a way to make the situation about himself rather than the intended reassurance that he understood his pain. The scoff forming his friend’s expression tells him he failed at communicating both intentions.

“And here I thought you understood what it was like to have strange dreams. Don’t you get them? Dagoth Ur sends them to everybody, trying to turn us mad and convince us to submit to his rule.”

There he goes, speaking of “the devil”, as Julan put it. For all the talk of Dagoth Ur, it sure seems like nobody knows _who_ or _what_ he really is. Surely a man, elf, or beast isn’t capable of sending nightmares to everyone in Vvardenfell—assuming disturbing dreams are being sent by someone at all, instead of being a normal part of life. Sending visions to mortals sounds more like the doing of a god—like what Azura is supposedly doing with Julan’s mother right now.

“It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s just…” _No, he’s right—you don’t understand all this talk about strange men sending strange dreams. But what does he expect you to say about that?_ Judging by the look on Julan’s face, he expects nothing at all. He turns around to leave with a mumbled “sorry to bother you, then,” prompting Servyn to act on the first instinct that comes to him—the only thing he knows to do, having learned from what Il-Tei did for him when he was entrenched in his own panic: envelop his friend in a tight embrace. To his surprise, Julan relaxes a bit into his arms, though Servyn knew he ought to say _something_.

“Um. I may not understand everything you’re talking about, but I know how bad the nightmares can get. I don’t know how to stop them. I don’t…uh…” Comforting, as it turns out, is much harder to give than it is to receive—not for lack of effort or desire; just that stringing just the right words together in just the right way is a lot harder than Il-Tei made it seem. Maybe it’s because unlike her, he’s not a good person who can do the right thing and be the big person in the room.

“It’s okay,” Julan sighs, though it’s not altogether a sad sigh. “I get what you mean. Thanks for always being there for me.” The two stand as statues for a short while, one content in the embrace of the other, who is riddled with anxiety over whether or not he should continue to stay still or recoil in flustered embarrassment over such an impulsive move. As if able to sense his friend’s discomfort, Julan clears his throat and steps back.

“Ahem, well. We’ve got to be up early in the morning to hear mother’s assessment. I’ll be going now—“ turning around and not quite realizing how close the wooden frame of the yurt was, he collides into it with a _bonk_.

“Ow. Uh…goodnight.”

The sound of cloth pushed aside abruptly and a brusque set of footsteps leaving him behind never felt so relieving—not because Servyn was happy for Julan’s departure, but because it meant he escaped a positive social interaction before his dreadful incompetence had a chance to turn it sour. At least, he’d like to _think_ it was positive; that he said something right for once, and didn’t disappoint anyone in the process. Julan certainly seemed eager to leave as soon as possible—because he realized how late it was, and thought it best for both of them to go to bed. That’s the reason Servyn goes with, as he curls back into his bedroll, no longer sleepy.

Exiting the yurt into the chilly early morning sunrise, Servyn yawns a great yawn and sighs with sunken eyes barely kept open. He couldn’t quite call himself groggy from having to wake up so early (as he hadn’t actually managed to fall asleep again after Julan left), but he certainly ached for said lost sleep, knowing he couldn’t simply crawl back into bed and hope that _all he needs is five more minutes, surely all he needs is five more minutes_! No. Julan insisted they be up early, so he’s up early.

Though the sun peeks ever so slightly over the horizon of the ocean, the sky is still a deep dark dawn of turquoise and yellow. Looking about reveals the sluggish incoming and receding tides of the shore, cliff racers darting in flocks across the ocean, a mudcrab burying itself into the sand…and no Julan. A lone yurt stands a ways off towards a rocky cliff; as it seems to be the only other tent on the beach, Servyn decides this must belong to his friend.

Knocking isn’t quite an option, given the yurt’s entrance is but a layer of fabric. Invasive as it may be, the only real way to check inside and ask if he may enter is to…well, do just that. He expected Julan _probably_ wouldn’t be too upset with him coming in unannounced; what he _didn’t_ expect was to, upon his first step into the yurt, nearly step on and slip over a lone empty bottle—one of several strewn across a haphazard explosion of discarded books, papers, clothes, weapons…a home’s worth of belongings, really—all in places that said items didn’t at all belong in. Servyn was no stranger to messes, given how many of them he cleaned up on a regular basis for Arvosi, but a mess such as this, in such a place as a tent stood out quite strikingly, so much so that it almost took his attention away from the lightly snoring sprawled out mer he’d originally came here for.

“Julan?” he whispers to no avail, as his friend remains fast asleep. Sighing and shaking his head, Servyn gets up, deciding it best to return to the guest yurt and wait for Julan to fetch him when he’s ready. He does not, however, decide this while also paying attention, and steps upon one of the many empty bottles strewn across the floor with a yelp as he crashes to the ground in a clinking cacophony of used containers and redware. It takes a moment or two for his head to stop spinning, though what greets him as he sits up with a whine is a discerning gaze of barely-open eyes and unkempt bed hair.

“Oh, I see—look who’s sneaking into the other’s yurt uninvited!”

“You said we ought to be up early in the morning!” Servyn retorts, shivering from the biting cold air.

“Yeah, I guess. Fine then, I’ll be up soon—oh! But you’ll want to turn around before I get out of bed—still don’t have a shirt on, you know!”

A storming out of the yurt with an “I’ll just wait outside until you’re ready!” followed by a fit of laughter and ten minutes of the warmest cold weather Servyn has ever experienced (courtesy of his exceedingly red cheeks) later, and the two meet in front of the family yurt, bracing themselves for the council that awaits. Once inside, they find two seating pillows already set out before a meditating figure, who only acknowledges the two with a hum once they’ve sat themselves down before her altar of burning incense and morning tea.

“Outlander,” Julan’s mother, who Servyn was informed is Mashti Kaushibael, sips her tea with eyes closed and expression indifferent. “Azura, blessed be Her wisdom and benevolence, has bestowed upon me Her guidance. You will receive it now.”

“Yes sera,” he replies, sitting across from her with a stiffened back and tense shoulders—identical to his friend beside him. With one last sip, Mashti places her cup down and opens her eyes in needle-thin slits, just enough to scrutinize the wide-eyed stranger sitting before her.

“Very well. As Azura wills me to admit, you may be trusted to aid my son in his mission—the details of which he’s no doubt already shared with you.”

Servyn doesn’t glance to check, but he swears he can feel Julan sweating bullets at the latter statement. All he can offer in response is a second meek “yes sera.”

Mashti raises an eyebrow. “Quite the timid mer for the supposed “master wizard” Julan assured me was helping him grow stronger. You _are_ the one training my son, correct?”

Something told him he ought not reply with a third “yes sera”, so instead Servyn only nods. Mashti appears disappointed, all the same.

“So be it. If this is true, then you do so with Azura’s blessing. I trust you are not stupid, and am well aware of the prosperity that comes with continued assistance…as well as the consequences, should you decide to betray us.”

The air between the three lingers heavy, like thick early morning fog, though only Mashti seems unaffected by the tense atmosphere, as she pours another piping cup of tea for herself and sips it without so much as waiting until it cools down, leaving Servyn to wonder if a cold personality on the inside makes one heat resistant on the outside. Maybe Julan’s mother really is some otherworldly patron of Azura, and everything she’s said about having supposedly spoken to a god in the middle of the night and, according to her, this god _actually approves of him_ —no. No, he doesn’t believe her words at all. However, for better or worse, Servyn doesn’t need approval from anyone—gods or otherwise, to stick by his friend’s side.

“Julan is my friend. I won’t betray him.”

“Mm,” Mashti drawls, without a trace of a smile. “Then we understand one another. As for continuing down the path Azura bestows upon you— _both_ of you: continue with training. Make yourselves known as travelling adventurers, for it is imperative that Julan’s mission remains in secrecy. When the time is right, I shall contact you with this.” Unveiling the folded square of cloth reveals a glistening ring of moonstone with aquamarine engraved markings. It’s an enchanted ring—that much Servyn can tell from the faint glow it radiates, though it was certainly the last thing he expected to find in a camp such as this, let alone presented to him as a gift.

“Julan possesses a ring identical to this one. With it, you may both communicate remotely, using the ring’s telepathic magic—you _are_ a mage, yes? I trust you are familiar with how to use it.”

“Yes, s—erm, of course.” Servyn takes the ring, holding it as delicately as one would hold a flake of snow, and slips it onto his left index finger. Its magic, even when contained in such a small artifact, is strong and present as a sixth sense.

“Julan,” Mashti speaks up. “Run to the farthest reaches of the beach and try to speak with the outlander. Ensure you know how to use the ring.”

“Er, of course, mother.” Before Servyn has a chance to cry “Wait, please don’t leave me here alone with this woman!”, Julan’s footsteps already grow silent with distance. His heart sinks like a stone in water, as Mashti’s commanding presence grows ever more oppressive against his own, despite no words being exchanged—yet. Maybe, he thinks, if he says nothing at all and stands completely still, he’ll be left alone out of mercy.

“Quite the energetic boy, wouldn’t you say?”

Servyn spins around to meet Mashti, wearing a deceptively friendly expression. _So much for being left alone._

“Ah! Look at me calling my son a boy as if he is just so compared to you. I see despite your unfortunate appearance, you share his youth.”

All he can do is blink. This only further amuses the enchantress, for reasons Servyn is content with not knowing.

“Youth is a fragile, innocent thing, outlander. Not that it’s any of your business, but Julan has endured many strikes upon this delicate relic over the years; strong as he is, I couldn’t bear to see the cracks finally come apart, should a malevolent being lay the final lash. Oh, not just I! Woe to our ancestors, for they would weep two times over, and return with a vengeance thrice as vicious!”

Her words taste of potent moon sugar: sweet on the surface, yet deadly to those who fail to heed its consequences. They coil around Servyn, suffocating him in a wicked trap in which defending himself or doing nothing ends with the same fatal outcome—Mashti, from the looks of her satisfied grin, knows this.

“Ah, but it seems my manners have escaped me, and I have yet to be properly introduced to the strapping young mage who has so graciously offered his wisdom and experience to my son. May you tell me your name once again, outlander?”

“SERVYN!” a voice answers—not out loud, nor from Servyn himself, but from within his mind. Mashti smiles at the smaller mer yelping from the sound; presumably because she knows it’s an indication her son is using the telepathic magic properly. That’s probably why, he thinks. He’ll go with that.

“Yes, I’m here! Gods, do you have to yell so loud, when only I can hear you?”

“Oh. Right.” the voice returns to a normal volume, with the sound of receding shores and crunchy footfalls in the sand accompanying it. “So…I guess it really works, then! Is everything alright back there? I didn’t quite realize leaving meant leaving you alone with mother…”

Dare he really answer honestly? Mashti may not be able to hear Julan’s words, but she will certainly hear Servyn’s.

“Everything’s fine. Can you hear me alright?”

“Clear as a cliff racer! That settles that then. Guess our next move is to hike it back to Vos, and—ah! Hold on, I’ll have to get back to you in a bit—there’s a huge slaughtershark swimming around, and I’m gonna catch it! We’ll have a grand breakfast!” The last thing Servyn hears before the incoming telepathic magic ceases is a splash.

“What!? Julan, don’t—I’m coming to help you!” Servyn bolts for the entrance, but an arm grabs his own, pulling him back.

“Ancestors do not hold back, outlander. Remember this well.”

Maybe it truly is the sense of duty to blindly, and without question, assist Julan with another one of his dangerous escapades that compels him forward without a last word to Mashti. Perhaps the woman’s words came across all too clearly for how short and indirect they were, and this is what frightens his legs into a quick frenzy in the opposite direction. Incidentally, plunging into freezing cold salt water to face off with a carnivorous slaughtershark was preferable to thinking too hard about either of the two.

Rain pours in an unrelenting torrent upon a dimly lit sleepy Balmora. The night is aged, well into the small hours of the next day, with the only sign of life bearing witness to the city’s completely barren streets is the gurgling silt strider stopping at the towering stone landing, with its caravaner sighing in relief at the end of having endured a long journey from Molag Mar. Crowds of travellers shuffle out from the strider’s shell, equally as exhausted and relieved to finally step foot on land again—Servyn and Julan especially.

“Sheogorath, what I wouldn’t do for a drink! These long strider rides are going to turn me into an old man with a bad back, sleeping on carapace… Bah, just our luck with this rain!”

Straightening his back with a distinct crack, Servyn couldn’t agree more. A warm bed and a long night’s rest lies just in arm’s reach, he can already feel the soft surface of a freshly fluffed pillow and weight of a nice, thick quilt blanket…he just needs to do one last thing, eying his satchel protected from the rain underneath his arms.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Balmora’s got _four_ taverns, you know—I say we stay at the Lucky Lockup, it’s the closest one nearby.”

Julan starts a brisk pace towards town, but Servyn doesn’t follow. The taller mer tops and turns around with an expecting look, quickly noticing the lack of a second pair of shoes against damp stone.

“Um…you see, I have to return to Caius. He’s that way,” Servyn points in the distance towards the water, “all the way across town.”

“What? You want to do that right now, at this hour? Surely the man’s asleep like the rest of the city.”

“Caius said these notes were important, and to take them to him as soon as I got them.”

Julan rolls his eyes. “Well, we already detoured to drinking with Hassour to get those oh-so-important papers, then detoured a second time to visit mother. What’s one more detour to a warm not-soggy inn?”

“You can go to an inn if you don’t want to come. Just tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll be there by morning. Probably.”

Servyn doesn’t comment on the fact that Julan continues to follow him towards the bridge, crossing into the residential district of the city through increasingly deteriorating and run-down parts of town, until finally stopping in front of the small unimpressive home of Caius Cosades. Julan raises an eyebrow at the two pairs of black pants hanging on a side rail of the front lawn—presumably to dry, though clearly no-one bothered to take them back inside once it started raining.

“Quite the _impressive_ place your boss has. And you said this guy pays well for the work you do for him?”

Servyn frowns. “Well enough to keep us off the streets! Now, please stay over there—Caius is very particular with the secrecy of his business. I shouldn’t be in there for very long.”

“Or at all—he’s probably asleep!” Julan retreats underneath a barely sheltered section of the roof and leans against the wall. “But fine, I’ll be over here, while you discuss business that I’m sure is completely legal and not at all dubious.”

“It _is_ legal,” Servyn speaks in a low tone, as he knocks three times at Caius’s door. He doesn’t hear any disturbance from inside, though he can’t quite tell with the pitter-patter of rain pounding just as hard against the wood.

“For the record, I support any and all illicit activity that goes against Imperial law!” Julan assures, just as, to Servyn’s surprise, the door creaks open just a crack, with tendrils of lavender smoke an a single eye peek through.

“A-ah! Mister Cosades!” Servyn straightens his posture to appear presentable, hoping to the gods that Caius hadn’t heard Julan’s quip. The eye narrows.

“Are you alone?”

Servyn nods eagerly. An arm emerges from the crack in the door and takes hold of Servyn’s own.

“Very good. Now—come in, come in!” Caius urges, uncharacteristically full of energy, given his age and…habits. Speaking of said habits, Servyn braces himself for the thick musk of skooma that engulfs his senses the moment the Imperial pushes the door shut, trapping all the tainted air back in.

“You’re…up quite late, sera. Or…early.”

Caius chuckles at the small mer staring sheepishly at the ground, trying desperately not to offend his boss with innocuous small talk.

“But of course! The wee hours are the best times to indulge in a bit of sweetness. Nice and quiet, no one awake to snoop around for who’s hiding the good stuff—bah, don’t look at me like that. You’re welcome anytime, you know.”

Servyn doesn’t answer, remaining still and expectant for new orders to be given.

“In any case, you arrive at an unexpected hour yourself, Servyn. Good for you!” Caius returns to his cushy pile of pillows upon his bed, taking up a fine skooma pipe and lounging back in comfort. Opening one eye lazily, he speaks once more. “I presume you’ve brought the notes from Zainsubani, as I’ve asked?”

“Yes, sera.” Fishing the thankfully dry and pristine notes out from his soaked satchel, Servyn holds them out in front of Caius for him to take. He doesn’t.

“Mm. Good work once again—so good, in fact, that I’m promoting you. Hold on to those notes; you’ll need them for your next job.”

“Next jo—“ Servyn starts, a flurry of questions coming along with it—none of which he gets the chance to ask before being interrupted, this time with a suddenly serious tone and demeanor.

“Before I tell you what you’re to do next, there’s something you need to know about this line of work—about _you_ , in particular.” A frown forms in Caius’s expression, though exactly what kind of frown, be it one of anger, sadness…guilt? Servyn couldn’t tell. The sudden shift in jolly old sugar addict to stern, refined leader caught him well enough off guard.

“You’ve no doubt heard whisperings of a Nerevarine prophecy, related to the Nerevarine cult you’ve been gathering notes on.”

Servyn nods, in a manner he hopes comes off as aloof, remembering Julan’s request to keep his mission a secret. Though he can’t but wonder why (or how) Caius knows about the Nerevarine.

“Good. Then you ought to know that the identity of this Nerevarine is known to us, and the Empire—known to you, as well.”

Silence. Silence is all Servyn can offer, in a sea of questions as to how Caius knows what he’d sworn to his friend to keep secret—which he had done, and wouldn’t tell the Imperial even if he had the chance to do so! But he’d only recently found out about Julan’s mission, and from the sounds of it, Julan hadn’t told anyone about it before him.

“The Emperor and his advisors believe _you_ possess the appearance and circumstances of fulfilling the Nerevarine prophecies. You ought to be familiar with what that is, and what that means for you, assuming you’ve been reading up on the notes you’ve received from the informants. If not,” Caius pauses to open a drawer in his nightstand—an empty skooma bottle-filled drawer—to retrieve a parcel. “This is a decoded copy of the package you first delivered to me. It contains everything you need to know about the Emperor’s orders: authorizing your release from prison, a rundown of the details of the prophecy, and why His Majesty believes this Nerevarine must be and can only be you. Read them on your own time.”

Servyn accepts the package into his arms—that much, he’s aware of. As for everything else Caius dropped upon him like a bombing fireball, his senses haven’t quite caught up with the staggering speed at which reality is suddenly moving. Whether Caius notices this or not, he continues as if everything is perfectly normal.

“As for what’s next: you’re to travel to Urshilaku camp, located in the northwest ashlands, and speak to Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa. They will test you against the prophecy. Perhaps we’ll see if His Majesty’s will is more than just a diplomatic attempt at creating a persuasive imposter.”

As sudden as the flick of a switch, Caius returns to his previous merry composure, suckling from his skooma pipe and blowing a delicate purple smoke ring. Servyn remains still as a statue, paralyzed by simultaneously having too many questions to ask, yet lacking the strength to face any of their answers. Was all of it just the ramblings of a mad drug addict? That was the easy explanation—that this whole time he’d been played for a fool, sent to collect information on wild conspiracy theories all for the amusement of an old man of questionable mental fortitude. The scariest part is it didn’t feel like the _right_ explanation.

“Servyn,” the Imperial drawls, one eye opened sleepily and looking towards him. “It’s late. Or early, whichever you prefer. What I’ve told you is a lot to take in. Fetch your payment there,” he points his pipe towards a bulging pouch on his nightstand, “and get some rest. Prepare yourself for the long journey ahead—you’ll need it.”

Servyn obeys. Despite how little the world makes sense to him right now, he at least knows, at the end of the day, how to obey orders. What he _doesn’t_ know, as he shuffles through the front door walking nearly on autopilot, is how to deal with a sudden pair of fists digging into his scarf and slamming him against the hard stone walls of Caius’s house, as a vicious choked up voice screams with a biting, venomous cry.

“YOU! YOU…YOU FAITHLESS, TRAITOROUS N’WAH!”


End file.
